Italian Time
by WhyAye
Summary: Robbie & Laura finally get time to themselves when they go on holiday in Italy. But the holiday is over when Jack Cornish is arrested in Sicily, and James joins Robbie to negotiate with the Italian police for Jack's extradition. Naturally, things get complicated. Takes place after Ramblin' Boy. SPOILERS for Inspector Montalbano, S9E4, "Una lama di luce/A Ray of Light."
1. Disclaimer and apology

Any resemblance of my OCs to real people is not intended. Sometimes I see a face and just have to write about it. I don't own, nor profit from, the characters, themes, or general brilliance of the ITV-owned _Lewis_. I similarly have no gain from, nor any right to, the characters and settings of the RAI-owned _Il commissario Montalbano_, known to the English-speaking world as _Inspector Montalbano_. I began this story with the intent of only hinting at Salvo Montalbano, but I am so in love with the show and the character that he took over and became a major part of my story. To those unfamiliar with him, I am sorry (Mi dispiace!), not only for foisting him on you but also because I think everyone who loves fictional detectives should know him, and I'm sorry for you if you haven't met him yet.

Those who know me (even a little!) know I became a bit obsessed with Italy and things Italian in the past year or so; this pretty well kept me from writing Lewis fics. At last I have been able to combine the two and this is the result. I hope you like it.

Finally, I apologize for my less-than-a-year-beginner's Italian; per il mio italiano, mi dispiace. I am self-taught, focusing on the terminology, slang, and accents of native speakers, somewhat emphasizing the dialects and accents of Sicily and Naples, and I have developed a strange vocabulary due to my using as "texts" mainly current news, with a maritime slant, which perhaps is more appropriate in this context than proper, schoolbook Italian. If you feel a need to correct me, please do so gently.


	2. Prologue

_O, mio fanciullo, vedrai,  
Vai, vedrai che un sorriso  
Nasconde spess' un gran' dolore.  
Vai, vedrai follia del uomo._*

-from Cirque du Soleil's Alegria, _Vai Vedrai_

Despite the whipping rain that drove as many of the passengers as would fit down to the lower deck and out of the weather, Fahrid Moussa gripped the rusted railing more tightly, and sized up the distance to the island suggested by the horizon he could faintly see in the fading daylight off the portside bow. Lampedusa, if he'd kept his bearings. He glanced at François, who had been his best friend ever since they met as young boys years ago. His look was returned, with the added glint of a grim and complicit smile. They were both young and fit, in a wiry sort of way, and they could make it, Fahrid thought, although the heavy sea would not provide for an easy swim. But better that than to go down with the ship. And go down was something he felt almost certain it would do. The small vessel pitched and groaned as the waves battered her; she had never been fit for such a journey, and now, after how many years of abuse? And so terribly overcrowded . . . Fahrid had given up counting but he was certain there were more than 400 others aboard the former fishing vessel, impressed into service in human trafficking and illegal immigration. The air belowdecks was rank with desperation, sweat, vomit, and human waste, as the trawler lurched slowly toward the Croatian coast from Tunisia. With one hand, Fahrid fingered the pendant his sister had given him before he had left home—a golden hand with a blue eye at its palm—seeking to ward off bad luck, and nonetheless fearing for the worst.

*_Oh, my child, see,  
Go, see that a smile  
Often hides a great sorrow.  
Go, see the insanity of Man._


	3. Chapter 1

Doctor Laura Hobson inhaled deeply through her nose, savoring the warm, woodsmoke-tinged air rising from the valley spread before her. Here and there among the hills, she could see the terra-cotta tile roofs of stone farmhouses; most of the structures – like the one she was in — were better than 400 years old. Olive groves made neat, dotted rows on the undulating landscape, and tall Lombardy poplars pointed skyward along lanes of crushed white stone. Everything felt green and fresh after the storms that had passed through during the night and into the morning hours. Now, in the warmth of the afternoon sun, it was heavenly.

She gave little gasp of surprise as a pair of strong arms wrapped around her, but she relaxed and sighed with pleasure as a series of little kisses began at the nape of her neck and worked around under her earlobe and along her jawline.

"Isn't it beautiful, Robbie?"

Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis turned her and looked directly into her eyes.

"Mmm, yeah, beautiful." He smiled impishly.

She gave a little snort at his impertinence, but smiled. They had had a lovely day so far, having had a late lie-in, then a shower, then a bite to eat: bread, cheese, and local olives. Robbie had offered to do the washing up and she took him up on that, freeing her to sit and enjoy the sunshine and the spectacular view. She turned to him: "So, what would you like to do this evening? There's a beer-tasting festival in Bastia Umbra tonight, I thought we could look into that. There'll be pizza, too."

"Pizza and beer? Sounds perfect! Not like some of that awful stuff Morse made me eat that time I came to Italy with him."

She furrowed her brow playfully. "You really should try some of the other local specialties. Probably best if you try them first, and find out later what they're made of. Promise me you'll try at least two pizzas with toppings you don't recognize?"

He pulled a face. "You sound like our Lyn, always trying to get us to eat weird stuff." But her fleeting frown made him rethink his approach. "And if I do, what do I get?"

Laura appeared to think a moment and then come to a decision. "I'll make you steak and chips tomorrow night."

By this point in their relationship, Lewis had had more than one steak done Laura's special way. "Deal!"

They shook on it, laughing. Then he put his arm around her waist and they both looked out again over the Umbrian valley at their feet. This time, it was he that inhaled deeply of the clear air.

"This is so different from those cities I was in with Morse and Lyn. Of course, with Morse we were wrapped up in the case, and I couldn't wait to get back home to Val. And Lyn wanted to go to every museum and see all the famous art." He scowled at the memory of dragging his tired feet and aching knees through room after room of paintings and sculpture. "All that history, I don't have much use for that. But this—" He stretched his hand out, arcing across the wide vista—"I could get used to this. It's so relaxing." He looked down at her and grinned. "Or maybe it's the company that makes it lovely."

He had indeed hesitated when Laura suggested they take a two-week holiday in the countryside of central Italy, but when she described how they could rent a little villetta (with a pool) and spend their time taking walks, sipping beers at outdoor bars, and enjoying each other's uninterrupted attention, he had to agree it sounded nice. The last of these especially seemed impossible to achieve in Oxford, as whenever they tried to have some time to themselves, either his work or her work always seemed to intrude. But high on this hillside in southern Umbria, with the nearest neighbor not even within view, they found time to explore each other physically and emotionally, and Lewis knew their relationship had strengthened exponentially in the past week. As he gazed at the peaceful scenery, he felt a gratitude toward this country that had, before this trip, been more an object of his scorn and dismay. Instead of the crazy political maneuvers, the grim economy, the festering mafia, the sensationalist press, and the overblown emotional terrain, he now saw the warmth and openness of the people, the beauty of the countryside, and the strength of the bond between this land and her inhabitants. As a Geordie, he felt a kinship with the regular folk who managed to maintain day-to-day lives without complaint or significant financial reward. He sighed contentedly.

And then the telephone rang.

* * *

In the time zone one hour west of Laura and Robbie, Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent pursed her lips in frustration. The call had come through in English, but when she was connected to the police inspector on the other end, communications began to break down. The vice-inspector she had been talking to had been replaced by his superior officer, a bit abruptly, as far as she could tell. This one spoke only Italian, she gathered that much, and she recognized with a grimace the name Jack Cornish. But beyond that, the Italian inspector's limited English failed and her nonexistent Italian was of equal nonservice.

"I'm sorry, Inspector, me no . . . capisha. No speak Italiano, signore. Can I talk to the other one there?" No response. "Don't you have someone to translate?" She huffed with impatience. Really, these days one would think the entire civilized world would be required to hire upper-echelon people who could manage in English.

Her office door cracked open just a little farther than it had been.

"I can translate from Italian, if that's what's needed." Detective Sergeant James Hathaway stood a bit awkwardly in the doorway, aware that he should not have been eavesdropping, but ready to be of service nonetheless.

Jean's mouth gaped in amazement (that he had been eavesdropping would occur to her only later, after he'd gone and it was too late to press the point). "Hathaway, Italian, really?" Then she remembered the apparent urgency of the situation. "Yes, please, the commissario here – erm, that's inspector, I gather—seems to think this is important to us. He mentioned Jack Cornish."

Hathaway's eyes met hers for an instant in mutual understanding. Jack Cornish was a cop gone bad, wanted for his involvement in more than one count of murder—among other crimes—but he'd scarpered before the Oxfordshire police could bring him in.

He clicked the telephone into speakerphone mode, took a breath, and recalled his best classroom Italian.

"Buongiorno, commissario! Sono Detective Sergeant Hathaway . . . Per favore, mi chiama 'James'."

There was a pause at the other end, then, "James, buongiorno! Salvo sono." Even in Italian, the commissario's relief was palpable.

"Salvo, piacere. Erm . . . come . . . posso . . . aiutarla?" Hathaway repeated the name he'd been given and asked how he could help, speaking slowly, checking himself before each word so that he could minimize his errors.

Jean stood back, almost in the doorway of her own office. Hathaway labored on in Italian, sometimes struggling with finding words or understanding the inspector's speech, but it was clear he was making progress and getting the story. Jack Cornish's name came up more than once, and she was sure she'd understood a mention of "Sicily."

At last, with a final "Ciao!" from James and an energetic "Ti ringrazio!" from the commissario, Hathaway clicked off the phone. Innocent cocked her head at him.

"I thought you said you could translate Italian. You seemed to be struggling quite a bit there."

Hathaway blew out his cheeks, clearly winded from his efforts. "Italian, yes, Ma'am. But that wasn't exactly Italian. That was Sicilian."

She frowned, shaking her head. "There's a difference? I thought Sicily was part of Italy."

"Politically, yes. Historically, culturally, emotionally . . . and probably lots of other ways, no. I'd say there's possibly a greater divide between Sicilian and Italian than between Scottish English and . . . well, English English." He resisted the urge to indulge in a history lesson.

She deepened her frown for an instant. Then: "Well, what did he say?"

James took a breath, and explained.

"Officers from a local Sicilian police station this afternoon arrested Jack Cornish in connection with that ship packed with illegal immigrants that sank off the southern coast of Sicily last night." He checked her expression to ensure that she was aware of that news. She was.

"Nothing is clear at the moment, but it appears Cornish was involved in human trafficking, illegal immigration, and that ilk. The ship was bound for Croatia, but the storms they had that night were too much for it." He paused and swallowed hard. "As I'm sure you're aware, there are survivors, but . . ." he exhaled slowly. "It's expected that as many as two hundred are dead."

"Why was Cornish in Sicily?"

"They weren't clear on that, possibly he was paying off the right people to make the whole incident disappear, or at least to clear his name in the matter." Hathaway couldn't stop his lip from curling in distaste.

She took in this news somberly, reflecting for some time before speaking again. "But . . . they have Cornish? He's in custody?"

Hathaway nodded. "Yes, that's for sure. And they're aware of our claim on him. But they don't especially want to let him go, not if they can charge him there and get credit for the collar. So we need to send someone to Sicily to negotiate if we want to be able to have him sent here for his UK crimes." He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Capisce?"

She knew that he was, of course, teasing her for her earlier mispronunciation, and she scowled, as was expected. After deciding he was not in any real trouble, Hathaway continued.

"The whole business is rank with potential mafia involvement, payola or worse. The Italians, as I'm sure you're aware, are notorious for corruption. You'd think they'd be more than happy to extradite him and have the mess off their hands and into ours." He added, perhaps unnecessarily, "If we ever want to see justice done properly for the murders of Johnny Jay and Dr. Whitby, we need to bring him back here. The criminal justice system in Italy . . ." He thought it politically wise to leave that sentence unfinished.

She blew out her cheeks slowly, thoughtfully. "Bit expensive, sending a pair of coppers over to collect him. Sicily is even farther than most of Italy."

Hathaway clucked his tongue, knowing he'd be in for it if the source of his next statement ever became known to his boss. But he owed Lewis for a certain Croatian detour he'd been forced to make.

"We already have a man in Italy. So you'd only have to pay for one more to go join him, and bring Cornish back here for proper adjudication."

Innocent rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Lewis needs that holiday, Sergeant." But she knew he was right. She couldn't afford to send two officers to Sicily when she had one already nearly there. And Hathaway would need to go, seeing as how he could speak the language and had established a rapport with the local commissario. Which reminded her of something she meant to ask . . .

"Why were you so informal with the Italian inspector? You _did_ tell him to call you James, didn't you?"

Hathaway snorted a little. "He probably prefers to be known as 'the _Sicilian_ inspector', Ma'am. And I didn't intend to be overly informal. It's just 'Hathaway,' to a native Italian speaker . . . Well, they'd have trouble with the 'H' and the 'th' and I thought it would be a gesture of friendship to offer not only my first name but something pronounceable." He grinned. "All in the name of foreign diplomacy, Ma'am." He paused a moment and added, "He seems a decent enough bloke. Even sounded like he could be honest. I'm looking forward to meeting him."


	4. Chapter 2

Lewis put the phone down and set his mouth in a line. Laura would be furious, he expected, roped into police business just when they thought they were beyond the reach of the Oxfordshire police station. He should have known; being a policeman meant you were on call no matter who was being born or needed babysitting or was dying, unless it was yourself in that last category, and even then you'd better be pretty far gone. But, the chance to nail Jack Cornish! He decided to present this to Laura as an opportunity to see Sicily, something he'd resisted out of . . . well, out of fear, if he was honest with himself. Fear based not only on news reports of Sicily's crime rate and mafia influence, but also he remembered Morse banging on about Sicilian food. And as he recalled, it had too much to do with sea creatures and too little to do with proper cooking. But he knew Sicily had a rich heritage and beautiful scenery, so he swallowed hard, worked up an opening line, and went out to the terrace to break the news as gently as he could.

* * *

Robbie and Laura arrived in Sicily well ahead of Hathaway. But they wouldn't venture beyond Catania to Vigàta, where the police station was, without their favorite interpreter in tow. James had warned Lewis that he had gotten the impression that the Sicilian inspector might be a bit temperamental, and this attitude was combined with Lewis's certainty that every Italian police officer would be at least untrusting, or worse, untrustworthy, when it came to intervention by a foreigner. He remembered when he and Morse had gone to Italy; the determination of the local police to share the absolute minimum of information meant they wasted a lot of time and chased numerous incorrect leads. Had the detectives all worked together, both sides would have had faster results. While he didn't remember his relationship with the Italian police as being especially unfavorable, the cultural differences, combined with the language difficulties with this Sicilian inspector, were enough to keep him far away until Hathaway's plane came in later that evening. Instead, Robbie and Laura sought out a dinner of local street-food cuisine, primarily under Laura's guidance.

They were drawn to a street-side grill wafting delicious scents their way, and Laura noted the menu board, checking the listings against her pocket Italian-English dictionary. "Robbie, try this – it smells so good, doesn't it? Look, it's not fish or anything, you can tell this is good ol' red meat!" Laura pointed to the offering of a local street vendor, from whose grill wafted odors and sounds of sizzling meat. Lewis peered at the thin slices of meat spitting and browning over the coals. It did smell enticing, if unfamiliar. And it obviously wasn't something from the sea. They had made it a bit of a tradition between them, indulging in street-vendor and takeaway food, ever since that riverside fish-and-chips dinner they'd shared when the Glyndebourne weekend fell through.

He conceded, and they had a delicious dinner of . . . whatever it was the guy was grilling.

"So? How did you like it?" Laura asked, licking the grease from her fingers.

Robbie wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "It was good! Tender, and nicely flavored . . . not beef, though, was it?" He was more guessing than anything else. Otherwise, she would have told him, wouldn't she?

"Erm, no." She studied the offerings in a shoe shop window, and cleared her throat discreetly. "Horse."

He choked a little, fighting a gag reflex. "Horse?! You mean . . . HORSE horse?!"

She took the offensive, turning sharply toward him. "Yes, of course, horse horse, what other kind of horse is there? You said you liked it, what does it matter what species it came from?" She sniffed dismissively. "Sicily is known for it, I thought you'd have known."

He swallowed hard, repressing the urge to respond, and they spent the next few hours wordlessly peering into shop windows and reading brass plaques attached to various historic structures.

They were still tense when they collected Hathaway from his evening flight and headed south to Vigàta; specifically to the Marinella area, which had the advantage of being beachside. Hathaway concluded easily (and correctly) that Laura had made the arrangements. They found their small hotel and got checked in and settled into their rooms.

Laura didn't say anything, but went about briskly arranging their things in the room. Lewis knew she was still in a mood about the horse incident. He didn't want to argue. Didn't want to ruin what little time they had left together without criminal activity once again interrupting their private lives. He took a breath and softened, turning his best puppy-eyed look on her, full force.

"I'm sorry, Laura. It just took me by surprise, okay? And I'm not very happy about us having to change plans to accommodate the Oxfordshire police department." He looked past her shoulder and continued. "Maybe I _should_ retire. Then we would only have one set of work demands to answer to. It'd be a lot easier for us to get away." He added, upon reflection: "To get away and to _stay_ away until we're ready to go back."

His retreat had the desired effect. "I'm sorry if it seems like I tricked you, I didn't mean to." She slipped her arm through his. Let's just enjoy this lovely evening, alright? It might be the last one of our holiday."

They spent the rest of the evening down in the area of the city that was immediately adjacent to the sea. A long, quiet stroll on the beach put them both in the right mood, and they ended up arm-in-arm, observing the several other beach-walkers, and even one late-night swimmer, who pulled himself out of the sea after his long swim, and disappeared into a beachfront house.

Lewis watched him with a bit of longing. "That's the life, i'n'it? Step out of your house onto the beach, take a swim whenever you want . . . I bet that bloke doesn't have a care in the world."

"And you'd like that?" Laura studied his response.

"Yeah, I think I would." He looked down at her and grinned. "That wouldn't always have been my response. But it is now."

She smiled back at him, and they found comfort in each other's embrace.


	5. Chapter 3

The following morning, Lewis and Hathaway were gathered in the high-ceilinged office of the commissario, with Hathaway acting as language and culture translator. He explained the latest of the Sicilian detective's comments.

"Sir, the commissario sincerely and regretfully apologizes, but because Jack is an international criminal, the job of handling him has been handed over to the–er, well, literally, it's the Penitentiary Police—as required by law."

Lewis frowned, failing to comprehend. "'Sincerely and regretfully . . .?' Is there a problem, Sergeant?"

Hathaway huffed impatiently.

Salvo's bright eyes flicked from one Englishman to the other, comprehending if not their exact words, certainly the somewhat strained tone between them. And, being an experienced detective, he was well used to relying more on tone than words to get the true picture.

The sergeant noticed, and lowered both his eyes and his tone. "Sir, it is customary for a local officer like our inspector here to consider any other law enforcement agency as being corrupt and inept. He no doubt is convinced that Jack was in less capable hands as soon as jurisdiction shifted from his own station." He cocked an eyebrow at Lewis to ensure he was on the same page, and then he tilted his head toward the Sicilian, and smiled artificially to deflect the latter's penetrating gaze. This was met by a quick – _too_ quick – answering smile. _He understands more than he seems_, Hathaway's mind warned him. And then he realized, _And he wants us to know that_. He gave a little snort in return. The commissario at first looked surprised, but then he grinned broadly, nodding.

"Bravo, James. Lei è molto attento."

Lewis had caught the exchange and understood Hathaway had earned the man's respect. And he realized that this was something to be valued. He smiled openly and honestly at the commissario. "So you've done what you can but you had to hand him off . . . and where can we collect him now?"

Hathaway's sharp intake of breath was enough to tell Lewis he'd made a mistake. The Sicilian jumped to his feet, gesturing vigorously and exclaiming rapidly. Shouting, almost, to Lewis's ears. In a bit of a panic, the inspector turned to his sergeant.

"Hathaway, man, what did I say?!"

Hathaway was fully engaged in trying to placate the overexcited Sicilian. "Scusi, commissario, mi dispiace . . . scusi, ci scusi . . . dottore, mi dispiace, non vogliamo dire . . ." until at last he jumped to his feet, clapped his hands together loudly, and shouted: "Basta!" This made Salvo stop, eyebrows raised, waiting to see what James would say.

Hathaway took a deep breath, knowing what he said next could make a big difference in the outcome. He began by sitting back down, putting the commissario's desk between them. Lewis watched him and listened, though of course the words themselves were lost on him. But he could already grasp the lay of the land from the body language of the two men. He had readily discerned how important body language and gestures were in this culture, and he was now engaged in what was essentially a language course: Italian Gestures for Travelers.

James bent slightly forward and talked in low tones, slowly, making sure not only that he spoke correctly, but that his restraint was part of his message. When he was done, he held up an index finger, _Wait_, and turned to Lewis.

"Jack is not ours to take, Sir. He's theirs; they captured him. Okay? So if we want him, we have to play nice, and to explain the strengths and importance of our case against him. I've just done that. Now, I hope, the commissario will explain to me why the Italian case against Jack is stronger and more important." He cocked an eyebrow at their Sicilian counterpart. "Qual'è il caso più importante, eh?"

To James's surprise, Salvo took a deep breath and averted his eyes. Then he exhaled, and pointed first at Lewis, then at himself.

"He. Me. Yes. You, no." He shook his head and his hand tracked that side-to-side motion. And he thumbed toward the door. A glint in his eye indicated there was no arguing this point.

Lewis stared in surprise. But he saw a hardness in the commissario's mouth that told him Salvo had his reasons for wanting to keep negotiations as quiet as possible.

Hathaway released a breath, but he could see both inspectors were intent on trying to deal without the aid of a translator. Incredulous, he checked Lewis's expression again, and finding no relief there, he got up and strode briskly from the room.

* * *

Lewis studied his counterpart, wondering how they were going to communicate and why he wanted this to be a private conversation. He could tell Salvo was gathering his thoughts carefully. The Sicilian put the chair Hathaway had vacated closer to his, and on his side of the desk. He gestured, from Lewis to the chair.

"Please."

Lewis sat.

First, Salvo leaned forward, nearly into Lewis's personal space, and he spoke very low, in words Lewis did not understand. At the end of his sentence, with his pinched-together thumb and forefinger, he zipped shut his lips. And cocked his left eyebrow, questioningly.

Lewis nodded, and pressed his own raised index finger against his lips: "Hush-hush on this, you're saying?"

Salvo gave a single nod, leaned back comfortably in his own chair, pointed to himself, then he spread his hands out low, open palms facing up. "I . . . have . . . no . . . thing. Niente. Niente su Cornish."

Lewis scowled. "No evidence?"

Salvo nodded, happy he had made himself understood. "Sì, sì, sì! No evidenza." He held up his hands helplessly.

Lewis scowled more deeply. He tapped his own chest, then his temple, then he gave a large shrug, and set his expression as questioningly as he could. "How? You arrest him?" He took Salvo's hand and with his thumb and forefinger, he mimed handcuffing the Sicilian's wrist. "With no evidenza?"

Salvo grinned guiltily and shrugged. "We have . . . how to say . . ." He picked up the phone and pretended to make a call in a secretive manner.

The meaning of his little demonstration was clear. "You got an anonymous tip from a reliable informant, right? But you can't use that as evidence." Salvo followed the words as well as he could, picking up the gist.

"Esatto." He pinched his thumb and forefinger together again but this time briskly drew a straight horizontal line in the air. _Got it in one!_ Lewis thought to himself, translating.

Lewis shook his head, still puzzled. "I'm sorry, I still don't . . ."

The commissario took a deep breath. "La barca . . ." he cupped his hands together and floated them over invisible waves, then dropped them down, sinking the small ship ". . . si affondò."

"The boat went down, yes?" Lewis mimicked the sinking action.

A quick nod. "I passaggeri—" a wee person with fingers for legs stood on his cupped palm "—alcuni sono stati affogati, sono andati giù—" the poor little guy went down under the imaginary waves.

"They drowned? All of them?" At Salvo's puzzled squint, Lewis spread his arms wide. "All?"

Salvo shook his head a little, still not certain of the word, but held up a finger in the classic gesture: _Wait_. And he continued with his explanation.

"Alcuni nuotammo." And he worked his arms as though swimming.

"Ah. Some survived. How many swam?" Lewis mimed the swimming action. "Erm . . . , uno, due, tre . . . ?"

Salvo nodded in understanding. He held up two fingers, then one finger, then two fingers. "Duecentododici."

Lewis arched his eyebrows in surprise. "Two hundred twelve? No witnesses among them? Erm, no evidenza?"

"No!" Salvo slapped his palm with the back of his other hand. The topic physically angered him, making Lewis a bit nervous about continuing.

Salvo took hold of Lewis's elbow and pulled him close, muttering quietly and swiftly: "La mafia. Mmm? Non posso parlare di questo." Shaking his head with his index finger against his lips as Lewis had done, his eyes shone with meaning.

"Silence about the mafia, understood." Lewis sought more detail. "Mafia. They . . . what? Made the witnesses disappear? No one to testify?"

The last word caught Salvo's ear. "Ah. Sì, esatto. Non ho uno testimone. Non uno." He paused to check Lewis's comprehension. Satisfied, he continued. "La mafia . . ." he circled a finger in the air ". . . li hanno preso lontano." And with both hands held apart, he moved the invisible group of rounded-up immigrants far off to one side. "Cornish li paga." He rubbed his thumb across his fingertips in a classic gesture of paying money.

_Gathered them up and took them away so there wouldn't be any witnesses, with Jack Cornish making the payoff_. Lewis exhaled in sympathetic frustration. At least he didn't have to deal with mafia interference as a regular part of his job. But if the Sicilians didn't have a viable case against Jack, that was all the more reason the Oxfordshire detectives should be allowed to bring him back to England. He wasn't sure how to make that point diplomatically. _Maybe I should have let Hathaway stay_.

He looked directly into Salvo's eyes. "So. No uno witness. No witness, no case, yes?"

The commissario shook his head regretfully. "No testimone, no caso, sì, esatto."

"So . . . Cornish—me?" Said with a gesture that gave a lot to himself.

Salvo set his mouth in a hard line. As he spoke, he first touched Lewis firmly on the chest, then himself. It sounded like, "You ah Cornish, me oh mafia." Then he put on a happier face. "Me oh Cornish, me _non_ oh mafia. La mafia è, erm . . ." he put all his fingertips to nervous, tight lips, as if perhaps biting his nails. "Evidenza sì, evidenza no . . . non sanno—" he shrugged to show someone who didn't know whether there was or wasn't any evidence "—e . . . _errore_, la mafia. Capisce?"

Lewis did understand. If the Sicilians kept Cornish in their system, the mafia might think they missed a witness and that there was a viable case. It might flush them out, for they might well make mistakes trying to find that last witness. But the ruse would be good only for a short time. They would find out the truth soon enough. And Lewis had his own investigation to protect. He stood up assertively, and the tone he intended to convey by his action was not missed by the other detective. Salvo briefly closed his eyes in a wince, knowing he was about to lose this one.

"But you won't have Cornish anyway with no witness. The mafia will know. Salvo, I _need_ him." Lewis drew close to the man's face, pressed his palms together and drew his hands toward his chest, and then he pressed his right palm over his heart. "So justice can be done."

There was a long stare from the commissario. Then his lids slowly closed, his face pinched slightly in pain, and he released a long exhale. And he gave the smallest of nods. But his eyes flew open, aflame with a sudden thought. "Eh! Ma, _James_ . . . non James!" He again zipped his lips shut with his fingers.

Lewis shifted back in his chair. "But, mafia involvement! I have to tell him there's mafia in this. It's too dangerous not to."

Salvo understood his point. "OK, della mafia, sono d'accordo. Ma, di no evidenza—No."

"Fair enough." James didn't need to know Salvo had no evidence whatsoever. Lewis shook Salvo's hand and was a little disconcerted that the latter unexpectedly grasped Lewis's right elbow with his left hand in what was almost an embrace.

* * *

James was sipping a most excellent cappuccino at an open-air coffee bar adjacent to the police station when Lewis found him. He carefully wiped the foam off his upper lip when he saw his guv'nor approach.

"Well, _you_ look relaxed, man. How's the coffee here, by the way? I could use one."

Hathaway jumped up from his chair. "Sir, what happened? Are we getting Jack Cornish?"

Lewis sighed as a sign that James should calm down and accept a slower pace of things. They were on Italian time here.

"Salvo admitted to me that the Italian case against Cornish is not as strong as ours. They have political reasons for keeping him here, mainly due to mafia involvement. Okay? If they look weak, that strengthens the mafia. If they look like they have a decent case, maybe the mafia will blunder about and show their hand. But the commissario understands our position and the importance of our case, _and_ the seriousness of the English charges. So, yes, we're getting Cornish."

Hathaway's face screwed up in puzzlement. "You two communicated all that? You don't speak any Italian; does he speak more English than I thought?"

"Hardly a word. Come help me figure out how this extraditing works."

* * *

When they returned to the commissario's office, Salvo handed them their authorization papers, with the line for "Commissario di polizia" filled in with his signature. Hathaway asked in Italian where they should go to collect Jack.

Salvo fixed his gaze a moment, deciding whether to give the long version or the short one. Settling on the latter, he gave an answer that included a quick series of three full-body shrugs: "Mi scusi, ma, non so. . . . Potrebb' ess're . . . a Catania . . . ?" He ended with another shrug, both palms opened upwards, a gesture that clearly indicated helplessness in this situation. When he realized from their consternated expressions that the Englishmen had even less idea than he where to begin, he unexpectedly shouted, "Fazio!"

Lewis looked at Hathaway for an explanation. James furrowed his brow; he had just been starting to think he was getting the hang of this accent, but this word eluded him. He directed his inquiry to the commissario. "_Faccio?_"

Salvo turned for a second in a total lack of comprehension. "_Che?_" and then a younger man, black-haired and lean, burst through the door in obvious response to the commissario's command. They jabbered for a moment in rapid Italian, and the subordinate went out again.

Salvo internalized the bewilderment of the two Oxfordshire policemen almost as though it were something that could be tasted or smelled. He gestured toward the now-absent man, then toward himself: "Fazio. Io." Then he waved his hand at James first, then Lewis: "James. Luìs."

"Ah, your sergeant. Your numero due?"

A noncommittal toss of the head, left and right. _Yes, maybe you could call him that_. Then a presented right forearm and a point to that: _My right arm_. Eyebrows raised in the question, _Got it?_

Lewis nodded, smiling. _Yes_, he understood all that. He turned to Hathaway. "I dunno what all the fuss is about. I think Italian is pretty easy!"

Fazio returned in short order and rattled off information to the commissario. At the end, he looked directly at the Englishmen: "Catania." Salvo made a more formal introduction of Giuseppe Fazio to the two English detectives, and they both shook hands with him, in the English fashion.

Then Salvo scribbled down a name and a number, and flicked his hands to illustrate impatience. He spoke to Hathaway, knowing that words were the most efficient now. "Documenti oggi, Cornish domani . . . forse dopo domani . . . Chissà. Capisce? Andate a Catania, signori, subito. Il signore Cornish dovrebb' ess're lì, ma . . ."

Lewis didn't understand the words. But he understood the expressive face—combined with the gestures—perfectly well. _Cornish _should_ be there in Catania_, the commissario was telling him, _if the penitentiary police haven't managed to cock up another assignment_.

Lewis stood suddenly, earning a startled look from his sergeant and an appreciative half-smile of comprehension from the commissario.

"You're saying my suspect might at any moment . . . " Lewis glanced at Hathaway, not knowing if there was an easy translation for his sudden notion that if the slightest thing went wrong, a crafty and opportunistic man like Jack Cornish was likely to escape. He focused on his sergeant. "If it's the way he makes it sound, we'd better get our skates on." Lewis understood well by now that Salvo's gestures did not illustrate or accompany what he was saying, they were as much a _part_ of what he was saying as the words themselves, and they indicated an intensity related to the idea that they needed to go very soon or possibly Jack would not be there.

"Sir, he said today we just do paperwork; tomorrow we collect Cornish." Hathaway wasn't sure what the urgency was.

Robbie huffed at him, exasperated. "If we don't stake our claim on him, who knows where he could end up? We have to go, Sergeant. NOW."

Salvo was already on his feet, understanding the content of the exchange between the Brits, and reinforcing the urgency felt by Lewis. He fastened his eyes on Lewis's: "Il suo indagato, se voglia portarlo - Vai, vai, vai, subito!" He pounded the edge of his right hand into the palm of his left and practically swept them out the door past the startled desk officer, and they dashed off toward Catania, hoping indeed that they were not too late to collect their suspect.


	6. Chapter 4

Laura turned and looked back down the long stretch of beach, the way she had just come. Robbie had phoned her from the car while Hathaway drove them as quickly as he could up to Catania. She knew it could be hours before they returned, and she decided to spend her time alone in a quiet walk along the sea's edge. It was a warm evening, and she wanted to continue past the developed part of the beach and go as far as she could, on to where the extensive greenhouses, in which the locals grew acres of produce, came down nearly all the way to the sea. It was still light, and she hadn't seen a soul for the last several hundred meters. At last she reached a rocky stretch where there was no more sand to walk on. Sighing resignedly, she turned to head back. But before she retraced her steps, she wanted a closer look at the row after row of largely temporary greenhouses that housed so much bounty. She started down one of the tracks between the structures, but heard a scrabbling sound to her left, and a sound that could have been a whimper or a gasp. More carefully now, she followed her ears, picking up bits of out-of-place scratching or rustling. She was sure she was following someone.

Unafraid, she moved cautiously, trying not to make any sound. But it was impossible to move in complete silence, and she bit her lip in frustration as she heard her quarry start an uneven, ungainly run. Then she heard a cry of pain, and the sound of a body hitting the ground. She strode confidently around the corner of the plastic-covered structure, and found herself facing a dark-skinned young man sitting up on the ground, grasping his ankle with his left hand and clasping something at his throat with his right, but showing neither fear nor pain in his expression; he simply watched her. His only movement was that of his fingers working over the hand-shaped pendant he wore. She stopped where she stood, and opened her arms and her stance to convey the idea that she was not a threat to him. Her face softened in sympathy and she smiled sadly. She knew only one word that might translate easily into any number of languages:

"Peace."

* * *

Laura and Fahrid made their way limpingly down the beach. He was obviously trying not to be dependent on her, and she tried to act as though there was no question he could have made his way without her. She knew his pain was increasing and that he would not make it much further, but she hoped fervently she could get him somehow to the hotel where the three Oxford representatives were staying, or to some sort of medical services, though she had no idea what was even available here. With every passing minute, that seemed less and less likely.

"Ngahhh!" He cried loudly, and lurched so hard that they both fell down. She got up immediately, and he apologized profusely in whatever language was his natural tongue. Laura fought back a sob. She didn't know where she could take him, didn't know how much farther she could carry him, didn't know his story beyond the fact that he was obviously trying to hide from authorities, and didn't know what would happen to either of them if the wrong authorities decided to intervene.

In despair, she plopped down next to him in the sand. She sighed deeply and looked him sadly in the eyes.

But Fahrid was not looking at her. He was looking _past_ her, down the beach and out toward the waves. She followed his gaze and saw that there was someone swimming there . . . someone who was a man who drew himself up when he was in shallow water and who approached them with authority, despite being clad in only a swimsuit. And she saw that when he realized he was dealing with a woman and an injured young man, he diminished his posture. And he made himself into a mere man-who-had-been-swimming, and came up quietly and seemed very friendly.

"Buonasera, signorina, signore. Avete bisogno di aiuto?" Laura noticed how his kind eyes sparkled when he spoke. And despite not understanding a word of what he said, she knew he was not only not a threat, but that he would help them. What she did not know was that she'd just met Salvo.

* * *

They let Fahrid clean himself up in Salvo's shower and dress himself in a borrowed, oversized (though Salvo was not a large man, by any standard) shirt and trousers, and then Laura skillfully bandaged his ankle. Salvo watched this process intently, and when it was finished, he offered what food he had on hand—olives, bread, cheese, wine—to both of his guests. Laura was amazed at how young Fahrid looked when he emerged from the bathroom. _He can't be more than sixteen_, she thought. As she handed him food and drink, she stroked his shoulder reassuringly.

"You're safe here, you know. No one will harm you here."

He snapped his attention in her direction: "You understand English?"

She nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes. Erm, I'm Laura. You are . . . ?"

"I am Fahrid. I came from the ship that went down. I didn't want to go with the men who came looking for survivors."

"Oh, you brave thing!" She hugged him spontaneously, and he returned the embrace warmly. Laura understood that they had immediately established a level of rapport that reflected the trust between two non-natives in a foreign land.

Laura noticed that Salvo kept to the background, either making himself absent or else keeping himself unnoticeable, bringing more food and drink, turning lights on or off, whatever was required for Fahrid's maximum comfort.

When she asked him for his story, Fahrid poured forth a classic tragedy. He'd revealed that he was on the ill-fated immigrant ship when it went down, but he had been aware of the danger and so was not one of the unfortunates trapped belowdecks when it capsized. He and a friend had been trying to get to Croatia where, Jack had promised them, decent-paying jobs awaited. And yes, he'd dealt with the Englishman directly when it came to paying his exorbitant transport fee. It had taken Fahrid years to accumulate sufficient funds for the voyage. And then he had to manage the correct timing. Apparently, the man who referred to himself as "Jack Cornish" preferred to collect his own cash rather than have his men do it and take their own cut on top of it, so even after Fahrid had the ready money, he couldn't arrange passage until Cornish showed up to set the details.

When the ship foundered, Fahrid and his friend leapt into the heaving sea and swam toward the Sicilian coast. Fahrid hid out when he reached the beach and he soon saw the kind of men that were rounding up the survivors—and the techniques they used. He'd kept himself alive using his wits, but then twisted his ankle, and survival became very difficult. Then Laura found him and here he was. But now he was out the money he'd paid, wasn't in Croatia, didn't have a job, and hadn't seen his friend François since the sinking.

"But I am here, alive." He smiled bravely.

She smiled in response, but recognized the bleakness behind his smile. "Fahrid, everything will be okay. You're safe here. Relax."

He concentrated his eyes on her. "That man—" his look indicated Salvo "—I do not trust. He seems too interested." Then he relaxed a little. "But you I trust. If you trust this man, I trust this man. I trust _you_."

Salvo closely watched her conversation with the Tunisian. When Laura noticed the Sicilian's intense concentration, she cast him a questioning look, but he shook it off and said nothing. _He has that look Robbie gets when he's onto something_, she thought_. _Laura did _not_ find "this man" completely trustworthy, even though she wanted to. She sensed he was adversarial in some way, though she couldn't say what. It seemed odd to her that he had opened his home to two strangers and did not seem the least bit interested in contacting authorities.

Fahrid touched Laura on the arm. "Will I have to go back? And . . . is there any way to find out what happened to François?"

When Fahrid mentioned the name François, Salvo straightened: "François?" Almost a whisper.

Puzzled by his interest, Laura explained. "His friend, his amico, from Tunisia."

Salvo hooked his index fingers together: "Amico intimo?"

Laura resisted the urge to look up the word, trusting her interpretation of the gesture. "Yes. Close friends. From when they were . . . bambini. Why? Erm, perchè?"

He shook his head, dismissing her question. "Niente." He smiled at her. "Non importa," he added. But his gaze avoided hers, and Laura noticed his eyes weren't smiling with his lips. _He's hiding something_, she thought.

Laura returned her focus to Fahrid. "Are you okay for now? Can you sleep?"

A look of slight panic crossed his young face. "You won't leave me here alone with him, will you? Please don't leave me!"

Recognizing what she was taking on, but reluctant to betray his trust, Laura shook her head. "No, I promise I won't leave you. I'll stay with you until we figure out what's happening, okay? Promise." She glanced at the Sicilian. "Okay? I stay here, too?" She pointed to herself and then gestured to indicate 'here'.

Salvo nodded quickly. It was clear the young man would close up completely if Laura wasn't there, maybe even would run off, and that was something Salvo did not want at all.

Relieved, Fahrid allowed his true level of fatigue to show. He was totally drained of energy and emotion, and they helped him into the bed and left him to his rest.

As Laura turned from the bed, she realized suddenly she was in the home of a stranger, a man who bore himself with confidence. Her mind went on full alert, and it showed in her eyes.

He rapidly clicked his tongue in a classic, reassuring manner, brushed his hand through her hair to soothe her, and then stopped, frozen. He blinked in disbelief at his lack of good manners, and pointed to himself: "Salvo, sono. _Salvo_. E Lei?" Smiling apologetically, he waved his hand at her.

He was handsome, compactly muscular, with what was either a minimal beard or a few days' worth of not shaving. His head was bald but with a shadow that led her to conclude he shaved that, too, and hadn't for a day or two. With coarser features, he could have given the impression that he was a hard, cruel man, but instead his face was finely sculpted and his eyes betrayed an honest and gentle nature. They were large and expressive, medium brown, running to hazel or amber, depending on the light and his mood. They sparkled now, and his smile was so warm, she couldn't help but smile in response. "Laura. I'm Laura."

He took her hands in his, all four hands held together in one cluster. "Laura," he repeated, making it sound like _Lowra_. "You here at Vigàta . . . solo? You non telephone-_ar_-ray?" He held an imaginary phone to his ear.

She shook her head. "No, not solo. I am here with . . . mi amo?" She didn't think that was quite the right phrasing but he understood.

"'Amore'. Con il tuo amore." His relieved expression registered clearly: _Of course_. Then he pointed in turn to himself, to her, and to the empty space next to her: "Sono Salvo, sei Laura, e . . . amore?" His shift to a more informal manner of speaking was unnoticed by her.

"Robbie."

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and several seconds passed before he continued.

"Luìs?" He put the accent on the second syllable.

She nodded, surprised. "Yes, Robbie Lewis . . . but how . . . ?"

He held up both hands in surrender. "Anch'io sono detective, sono polizia. Po-leez. Sorry." Pointing to himself, looking as apologetic as anyone could.

Her brain connected. "_Salvo?_ The commissario here?"

He smiled modestly, almost bemusedly. "Sì. Io sono."

They burst out laughing together. Laura knew personally how a detective was _always_ a detective, always curious about people and what made them tick and how they were related to the circumstances at hand. No wonder he took such an interest in his unexpected guests.

With a puzzled expression, he asked, "You come also to take Cornish?" He couldn't believe English policemen were allowed to take their girlfriends on work-related trips.

Suppressing laughter, she shook her head. "No, no, no. We are here on vacation." Her eyebrows rose, questioning whether he understood.

"In vacanza, ho capito." Then he frowned. "He must come here? In vacanza but must come here?"

She grinned ruefully. "Police always work, yes? Even in vacanza."

That drew a knowing chuckle from him.

Then Salvo became serious. "What . . . Fahrid . . . say?"

She explained to him a simplified version, with simplified English, gestures, and the help of her pocket dictionary. By the end, Salvo had grown very thoughtful, almost grim.

"What is it?" She corrected herself as best she could—"Che cosa è?"

He drew in a breath, still looking past her. When his eyes snapped to hers, they were steel-hard. Startled, she drew back a little, and his focus shifted to her face. At once, his features softened, and his eyes became like melted chocolate. He looked at the floor, smiling gently, and shook his head. "Niente di niente. Non ti preoccupare." He brushed his hand against her jaw and under her chin soothingly.

Salvo's gestures and expressions were so familiar; apparently, detectives the world over had the ability to shove their cases to the back of their minds and reassure a person that there was nothing to worry about. But she didn't buy his answer for a moment. Then it dawned on her. _Fahrid is useful to him in his case against Jack_. No wonder Fahrid instinctively felt on his guard.

"You use Fahrid as witness? As—" she rapidly consulted her dictionary "—as testimone?"

His eyes turned sad and he looked away. He shrugged gently, shaking his head. "Non so." At last, he looked directly into her eyes, and said again, "Non so. E' complicato . . ." He took her dictionary from her hand and thumbed through, then pointed to the English meaning of the word he had used: _Complicated_. He continued: "Fahrid, he . . ." Then two more words from the dictionary. He pointed to ferito: _injured, wounded_; and dolore: _ache, sorrow_. She understood that Salvo did not want to cause Fahrid any more pain than he had already suffered and had not yet decided whether to use him.

"What will happen to him?" But Salvo could not get enough of her words to understand. She tried again. "Where he go now?"

He again shrugged sadly, and she saw his dark eyes were glistening. "He go home, Tunisia." He took her hand and said for the second time, "Non ti preoccupare. You, me . . . we . . ." then he nodded toward where Fahrid slept peacefully. He identified one last word from the dictionary, badare: _to tend, to take care of_. "Okay?"

She nodded, sensing she could trust him, and finding sudden relaxation in this conclusion. His tenderness for the young Tunisian was genuine, and his demeanor was gentle, though guarded. She realized he was a very private person, not used to letting strangers into his home but unable to refuse to give help where it was so clearly needed.

She gazed one last time at the sleeping Fahrid, then turned from the bedroom. As she did, she realized there wasn't anywhere else to sleep in the place, and almost nowhere else comfortable to sit, even. She looked around, dismayed. Salvo grasped her hands, shushed her with a rapid _sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh_, and led her, walking backwards, to the doorway looking out onto his expansive terrace overlooking the beach and the sea. He pointed to himself and then to the deck chair there; then he pointed to Laura and to the sofa in the living room. "Me here. You there." He scowled a bit, trying to look stern, and trying to see if he was being understood.

Laura broke into a friendly and amused smile. "Me . . . awake. Stay up. Walk around. We talk?" Her waving hands and scissoring fingers showed him how she would pace, unable to sleep, and then how the words would run from her mouth and from his, touching their lips in turn. She jerked her hand back when she realized how her fingers on his lips suddenly seemed so very intimate. He focused on her, reading her face, and he produced a broad smile that lit up his entire face. "Okay," he said simply.

He offered to refill her wineglass, and she accepted, but held her finger to the low level she wanted. They sat side-by-side on the sofa, and he watched her with interest as she sipped, his eyes alight with curiosity and kindness. _His face is so beautiful_, she found herself thinking, to her own surprise.

Laura smiled at him a bit nervously; it had been a long time since any man beside Robbie had made her heart flutter. Not that she was very tempted, when she really thought about it. But her attraction to him was a new experience, and although she forced herself to set a guard on her reactions, she could feel her tension ebbing away.

_Well, Laura, here you are spending the night in the house of a man you've just barely met_. But remembering her manners, she turned to look him in the eyes. "Thank you. For the food and for helping us."

He smiled, graciously accepting her gratitude. "Piacere mio."

Laura's few Italian words included this last, _My pleasure_. She couldn't stop her response, "Mine, too. You are amazingly charming." She said the last with the confidence of one who knows the statement will not be understood. But Salvo's eyes broke contact and rolled to avoid hers, a bit embarrassed. "I am sorry, my English is not good . . . 'Sharming'? I not know this." Indicating by omission that he _did_ understand "amazing."

They bubbled into laughter at the same time. Laura sensed that, despite the popular reputation of Italian men and despite her vulnerability in this situation, she was utterly safe with Salvo. He was so careful with her he seemed almost nervous, and she knew he would not violate the trust she put in him, even if she wanted him to. And indeed for an instant she thought that, if not for Robbie, she might not mind very much if he did. After all, he was not only charming, he was fit and good-looking, regardless of being what she guessed must be close to fifty years old. She firmly pushed that idea out of her head, knowing that under the circumstances, of _course_ she would mind if he tried to take advantage of her.

Laura realized she was dead tired, and stifled a yawn. Salvo smiled beautifully, showing his straight teeth. "E adesso, dormiamo." He placed his two hands, palm-to-palm, against the side of his face: _sleep_. She felt a sudden exhaustion flood her body, and her eyelids drooped. She took off her shoes and set her watch and cell phone on the table.

As Salvo arched one arm around her shoulders, "Ma, prima . . ." he pointed to her cell phone. "Luìs?"

She drowsily shook her head. "No. He phone me. Erm . . . Capisce?"

This softened him completely, and he drew her all the way within his arms. "Capisco." He gazed down at her as a parent might gaze down on a sleepy child. "Buonanotte, Laura. Dolci dormire."

He was warm, and his body exuded a faint scent of sea salt and nutmeg. Secure in his protective embrace, her cares washed away. In moments, she fell into a deep, serene sleep.


	7. Chapter 5

"C'mon, man, there _must_ be a way around!" Lewis banged the steering wheel in utter frustration. He and Hathaway were stuck behind what seemed like the thousandth tailback on the road from Catania to the south, more waiting, more delay, as they paid the price for the insanity that was Italian traffic.

Hathaway let his temper get away. He waved the map in Lewis's face. "THIS IS THE ONLY BLOODY ROAD, OKAY?!"

They stared at each other for a moment, then Lewis exhaled through his nose. "Imagine living here and putting up with this, every day."

James recognized an apology when it came, even masked this way, as it often was from Lewis. The frustrations of the day had simply compounded themselves, and this was the ultimate reminder that they were now operating on "Italian time."

"Sorry, Sir." He paused long enough to light another cigarette. Lewis didn't mind him smoking in the car, which made everything easier for everyone. After a long inhale, he studied the glow at the end of the fag.

"Helluva day, wasn't it?"

Lewis huffed an exhale, companionable now, in their mutual suffering. "All this time spent, and what do we have? Nothing! What's that in Italian?"

"Niente."

"Must be their bloody favorite word."

It was somewhere after one in the morning. How there could be so many cars out on the road at such an ungodly hour, Lewis had no idea. Moreover, they were returning to Vigàta almost completely empty-handed: they'd acquired two of the three required signatures. The person they apparently needed to see to get that last line signed wasn't there, wouldn't be in until tomorrow afternoon, perhaps . . .

And so, they had made little progress on the actual transfer of Jack Cornish to their custody, and had spent more time on the road than anywhere else.

They eventually reached the Vigàta hotel at close to three in the morning. Lewis was exhausted, but he looked forward to relaxing in Laura's arms. He quietly entered the dark hotel room, shed the accoutrements of the day, shrugged out of his clothes and slithered into bed.

But it was an empty bed he slithered into. There was no Laura, no warmth, no companionship. Surprised, worried, and—well, _hurt_, if he was honest with himself—by her absence, he rang her phone as soon as he realized she wasn't there to make his fatigue go away.

* * *

Laura's phone almost went to voice mail, but she caught it just in time. She checked the screen.

"Robbie?" Her voice was rich with sleep.

"Laura! Hi . . . erm, I mean . . . we're back at the hotel and I'm wondering where you are? It's three in the morning . . ." Lewis's voice comprised that mix known so well to anyone who has been the parent of a teenager: a blend of relief at making contact, annoyance at not being kept informed, and worry about what has happened in one's absence.

She wasn't yet fully awake, and she struggled to gain her bearings.

"I'm . . . at your new friend's house, Salvo, he . . ." She sighed, remembering all that transpired in the last eight or nine hours. "It's a lot to explain over the phone. There have been some new developments."

Next to her, Salvo sat up and tried to gather what was happening. They had fallen soundly asleep together on the sofa, essentially in each other's arms, and certainly in a position indicating a level of comfort Robbie might not be too happy with if he could see it, although it was all completely innocent. Salvo nudged his chin toward Laura, questioning. She shook her head. _Not now_.

"What happened with Jack?" She managed to sound very businesslike in her interest.

Robbie managed to remove _most_ of the annoyance from his voice. "We got some of the paperwork done. That's a big step, apparently. But we need to get one more signature to make the transfer actually happen. Then they will move him either tomorrow or the day after. My understanding is, given the 'Italian time' factor, we're doing great so far. It's pretty frustrating."

Then his timbre changed as he focused on a more personal level.

"So, Laura, you're spending the night in . . . Salvo's _flat?_"

She knew he was right to ask what on earth she was doing there, and it made her defensive.

"It's not a _flat_, it's his house; he owns the whole thing, right?" Then she realized how this would sound to Robbie. She knew he could hear her inhale and exhale. "I'm sorry, Robbie, it's just, so much has happened . . ." she glanced at Salvo and inaudibly was given permission . . . "Why don't you come here first thing, so we can explain it all. There's been a bit of a complication, someone we have to take care of." She knew that by posing the recent events as being related to the case, Lewis's mind would be less likely to stray to personal angles, to what she might be thinking in her heart.

"Yeah, okay, we'll be there. First thing." Robbie growled the last into the phone, pitched the instrument into a chair, and flung himself onto the bed for a few hours' sleep, if it would come. He refused himself the wish to wallow in speculation about what Laura was doing at the moment, and with whom.

After Lewis rang off, Laura found relaxation in the sublime neck-and-shoulder massage Salvo offered her as recompense for having to sleep halfway sitting up on the sofa. She recognized that, by appearances, she was walking a fine line. But she also knew he was unquestionably harmless to her, and he made her feel so very, very good. She hadn't slept that well in years. Even if it was on a sofa.

* * *

The three unlikely companions were sipping coffee in silence on the commissario's terrace overlooking the beach when the doorbell rang. Salvo had asked Fahrid a few questions, but the language barrier meant they had to stick to basic topics; neither man could express or understand subtleties in English, which was their only way to communicate. Salvo had tried French, but Fahrid was no better at that than English. He had closed up at Salvo's questions, and moved closer to Laura as though seeking protection.

Salvo leaped to attend to the door, dabbing his lips with his napkin and tossing it on his chair. He opened it for the two English policemen and instinctively paused a moment before letting them inside his home, his refuge.

Lewis sized him up: despite having had a short night, Salvo was clear-eyed and sharply dressed in what was an expensive-looking, well-fitted suit. Salvo noticed that Lewis's nostrils flared, and he was aware Lewis was giving him a thorough sniff test. He admired the Englishman's thoroughness. He himself was very sensitive to odors; most detectives overlooked this important source of information. He had to smile when he realized he was being checked to see if he bore any scent of recent sexual activity. He reached out and touched Lewis on the arm. "Come. Laura . . . here." He waved toward the sun-drenched terrace, and the three men walked through to it. While Laura introduced Fahrid, Salvo pulled two more chairs from somewhere, and two more of the small coffee cups.

After greeting Laura with a quick kiss, Lewis fixed his eyes on Salvo's. "Right. What are these new developments, then?"

Salvo smiled, encouraging trust. He looked at Hathaway to translate, but he did pretty well on his own. "The document I sign . . . I see?"

Lewis proffered the transfer papers. "This?"

Salvo looked them over. "Sì, questo. Grazie." He folded them and tucked them away into the inner pocket of his own jacket.

A puzzled scowl creased Robbie's forehead. Without taking his eyes off Salvo's, he said in a low voice, "Sergeant, find out what the hell just happened here."

Hathaway asked a few questions, and Salvo answered. Like Lewis, he did not shift his focus. Even though Hathaway was asking the questions, both senior officers understood that the conversation was between the two of them.

"Sir, he says Fahrid is an important eyewitness in the human trafficking case against Jack Cornish. According to him, things are now very different from yesterday, and he is no longer willing to extradite Cornish without further consideration."

Robbie took a moment to absorb what had occurred. The Sicilian had essentially rescinded his approval of Jack's transfer. He hissed. "You son of a—"

Hathaway leaned in and cleared his throat to be certain Lewis realized he was about to dutifully translate that last comment.

"That's enough, James, thank you. I think the commissario understands my English just fine."

* * *

Hathaway helped Laura clear away the coffee and brioche remains, happy for an excuse to avoid the tension on the terrace. When they were in the kitchen, he turned to her, making sure of their mutual eye contact before continuing.

"You seem to understand our Sicilian friend pretty well. Do you think he is going to insist on keeping Cornish here, now that he actually has a witness?"

Laura took in a deep breath. "James, I met the man less than twenty-four hours ago. But I am certain he is as right-minded as you and Robbie. In my opinion, he will put up as big a fight as he must to satisfy his superiors that he did everything he could, and then will let you have him. Fahrid's only one witness, that's pretty weak. And the charges would be pretty insubstantial compared to yours. He has an innate sense of justice—you know what I mean. It's what I find attractive in you and Robbie."

Hathaway cocked his head. "So . . . Detective Salvo has the same features you find attractive in Lewis. This is not a problem?"

He thought she might get defensive. But instead, she laughed. "James, think about it. Yes, he has those 'same features,' as you call it. What would Robbie do, if tonight he had to deal with an important witness whose testimony he could only discern with the help of a woman who found him attractive? Should I have any concern that Robbie would dally with this woman, and betray our relationship?" She got the reaction she expected. "Exactly. Salvo is the same." She snorted a little. "You spend an hour or so with him, you'll understand what I mean. He's _good_, James. He's just. Does the right thing, despite the rules." She allowed herself a smug smile. "Like our Robbie."

* * *

They were lingering yet on the sunny terrace when Salvo's phone rang; he excused himself to answer it, and even though the handset was right there and he didn't have to leave the table, he stood and strode to the farthest corner. Lewis turned slightly, focusing his ears on the Sicilian.

The commissario listened only a moment before snapping an order, mentioning Fazio. Then: "Fazio, cos'è successo?" Hathaway's ears perked at that: _Fazio, what happened?_

Salvo didn't ask very many other questions. When he clicked off, he turned and fixed his gaze on Lewis. He chuffed out in a brusque exhale.

"Cornish make run. You, me, tutti—" his wave encompassed the whole company and then he swooped his hands toward the door "—'diamo _subito!_"

They fairly flew to headquarters at Vigàta, Salvo's driving flirting with the laws of physics. At the station, he hustled them into his office, where Fazio was already waiting. The younger man gave a breathtakingly rapid explanation to his superior, which Hathaway struggled to catch enough of to make sense. At the end, Salvo barked an expletive and banged the top of his desk with both hands, furious. He whirled in search of something to do, something to throw, someone to strangle. But eventually, he stopped, resigned and worn down. They were all helpless to do anything but wait.

Hathaway pulled Fazio aside for a bit of clarification, then he turned to Lewis.

"He's gone. Escaped somehow, during the night. They have a helicopter out, looks like he nicked a high-speed boat and is headed for open water. His keepers apparently didn't notice him gone until they got a call from the Coast Guard, who had managed to identify him. Bloody Italian coppers, I'm not sure there's a one that isn't either incompetent or on the mafia payroll . . ."

Laura scowled at him, and he rolled his eyes. "Present company excepted, of course."

Hathaway noticed Fazio studying Fahrid, and he moved to introduce the two. But Salvo pushed himself between them, arching his neck as a means of waving James away. The two Sicilians put their heads together, and Salvo gave Fazio a brief recap—so brief that Hathaway caught it all.

Lewis touched him on the arm. "What's this about?"

Hathaway scowled inwardly, convincing himself he heard correctly. "Salvo has told Fazio that Fahrid isn't here, that he doesn't exist. Why would he do that?"

Lewis had seen the look that passed between the two Sicilians. "I _think_, but I could well be mistaken—" he checked Hathaway's eyes to be sure he understood the tenuousness of the inspector's opinion "—that he means to keep Fahrid under wraps. I don't think he's ready to commit himself to taking our case away from us. If his superiors don't find out he has an actual witness, he won't catch hell for letting Cornish be extradited."

The younger man's brow furrowed deeply. "He's favoring _us_? Over an in-house conviction?"

"Our case is stronger and the offenses more grave, in my opinion. More people died in that shipwreck, but from what I've gathered, Jack didn't have much say in the conditions. He simply arranged the price of passage. The masterminds for his operation have to be found elsewhere. "

"Elsewhere . . . ?" James worked it out. "Oh – mafia, again. Jack is merely their puppet?"

Lewis gave him a look that was a bit amused, a bit patronizing. "Or else they're his. Which d'you think?"

Hathaway's half-smile conceded that it was an obvious answer. But he thought on it some more. "But, Sir, isn't there also the chance that Salvo simply doesn't want to draw the mafia's attention to the fact that there is a witness? Or maybe he means to make Fahrid disappear so there _isn't_ a case." Hathaway locked his eyes on Lewis's: "We don't have any way of knowing how clean this commissario may be. He could be up to his ears in mafia—" he swallowed the word that leaped to his lips, and substituted "_merda_."

Lewis inhaled deeply. Hathaway had a point. But it ran against his gut feeling. He had picked up on something, _something_ – no more than a twinge, a hunch, a twinkle – that he and his Italian counterpart were cut from the same cloth when it came to scruples. Not that he couldn't be wrong about that, he'd once thought he and Jack Cornish were cut from the same cloth. He noticed Salvo watching them converse, and without thinking, Lewis winked at him. The Sicilian was at first a little taken aback, but then he understood. And he gave the slightest hint of a smile that was meant only for Lewis. But whether this meant he, too, had confidence in his counterpart or he was simply amused that Lewis would trust him, the Geordie had no way of knowing.

* * *

They stewed around the station for some time longer, the Sicilian inspector becoming more and more peevish and short tempered. Lewis was shocked that at one point he actually threw an ash tray at the desk officer when the latter banged into the office with something that turned out to be not news at all. It missed him, and that looked to be intentional, but still, it made its point, and the Englishmen realized this was not a man who hid his emotions. Salvo would be calmed, however, whenever Laura intervened, and Hathaway noted with amusement how the commissario's mood seemed inversely related to Lewis's, depending on the proximity of Laura.

Fazio sidled up to James, touching him on the arm. "Scusi . . . vuoi una sigaretta?" He mimed smoking a cigarette.

They slipped outdoors to where a few others were standing about, indulging in their habit.

Hathaway held out his packet of cigarettes, offering one.

Fazio's answer was as clear as his need to connect with his Oxford counterpart. "No, grazie. Ma . . . ho bisogno di parlare con te." _I need to talk with you_.

"Okay. Shoot." James lit up.

Between them, with Hathaway's half-done Italian and Fazio's half-done English, they managed a conversation.

Fazio conceded that Salvo could be a real bear, and Hathaway allowed that Lewis more than once resembled a mule. Hathaway knew that he and Fazio were playing roles here; they were representing their superior officers, but in a setting where they didn't have to maintain turf boundaries.

Their conversation, in somewhat broken Italian, followed essentially this track:

"_The commissario needs to feel he can trust your inspector_."

"_Your boss – he's a good man?" _Hathaway drew on his cigarette as though disinterested in the answer_._

"_Good? He's the best . . . . But sometimes . . . ."_

"_He pushes the line too much?"_

Fazio snorted._ "Yeah. Both with his subordinates and with his superiors. He doesn't understand that not everyone is always focused on justice as a result."_

Hathaway shared the chuckle. "_Yeah, mine, too_." Then he allowed himself a full inhale and exhale before continuing. _"And if justice prevails, what is the result of our two cases?"_

"_You mean real, cosmic justice? Jack Cornish in Hell would be the result."_

Hathaway couldn't resist a smile. "_Hey, do they really make every schoolkid read The Inferno?_"

Fazio shrugged. "_I know I had to . . . Yeah, maybe._" He and James watched the passing traffic a while. Then Fazio took in a big breath. "_It's just a hunch, but I think the commissario wants to let you have Cornish. But even if he does, he will first want to be sure you are honorable men._" He held his hand up quickly to stop the expected objection to this anachronism. "_He hasn't decided yet, as far as I can tell. And we have to keep Fahrid safe whether we use him to go ahead with our case or not._"

"'_Safe'—from the mafia?_"

The Sicilian was clearly more accustomed to dealing with organized crime than they were in Oxford, and he nodded matter-of-factly. "_Not only is Fahrid in danger if he is found before we're ready but whoever let him slip through the net is likely to eventually wash up on one of our beaches. With La Cosa Nostra, when you're paid to clean up a mess, you'd better make sure it's done right._"

James shot him a sudden look. "_Cosa Nostra? Is that what operates here?_"

Fazio did an instinctive scan of the vicinity before continuing. "_There are some smaller organizations, but in this case, our information is that Cornish paid La Cosa Nostra for the work_." He noticed Hathaway's grim expression, and faced him fully, taking hold of both of James's upper arms. "_Why?_"

The taller man's nostrils flared as he came to grips with this new information, and with everything it implied. "_In Croatia, his operations were funded by the 'Ndrangheta._" A rival mafia, known for its ruthless enforcement techniques.

This drew a gasped _Merda!_ from Fazio. "_If the commissario finds out about this . . . . The 'Famiglia Montalbano' they're also called, did you know that? Salvo gets a lot of grief about that from people who don't know him._"

"_Does it matter, as far as our negotiations over Cornish?_" When there was no ready answer, James looked at his companion and saw that Fazio had gone pale. "_Fazio?_"

His already dark eyes were all black. "_It'll be war. That bastard Cornish has started us a mafia war in Vigàta. If the 'Ndragheta find out their man Cornish is in trouble because La Cosa Nostra employed sloppy clean-up efforts . . . And Cornish is a dead man for paying off the wrong people. He'd better hope the Carabinieri get to him before his mafia buddies. They won't hesitate to kill him. Gotta keep the ranks in order._"

Hathaway snorted and smiled wryly. "_Do you get overtime here?_"

Fazio rolled his eyes, but there was a dark humor in them. He sighed. "Shit." This time he said it in English. Then, "_Well,_ _I'd better go tell the boss_."

Hathaway finished his cigarette and ground it out and checked to see if Fazio had collected himself sufficiently: "Sei pronto?" _Ready?_

The answer was resigned: "Sì, sì, sono pronto."

When they entered the commissario's office, they both immediately understood that things had not been as collegial there. Lewis, Laura, and Fahrid huddled near one wall, while Salvo sat at his desk, glowering. It was as though his foul temper took up its own space, occupying a large part of the office and preventing anyone from nearing him.

Fazio, who had dealt with this mood countless times in the past, approached slowly and cautiously, but steadily. "Commissario?"

A black eyebrow cocked in his direction.

The younger man spoke rapidly in quiet, calming tones. Something he said definitely caught his boss's interest. At first, Hathaway thought there would be an explosion. But then his ears picked up a word—"_pranzo_"—and he saw the corner of Salvo's mouth twitch upward.

Lewis leaned in. "What's he saying to him? Did you two reach some kind of agreement out there?"

"No, Sir." Hathaway cracked a puzzled smile. "Fazio's telling him we should all go to lunch."

It was obvious the junior officer knew what he was doing. As though a fresh breeze had entered and cleared smoke from the room, the snarl on Salvo's lips—and its accompanying attitude—had completely dissipated. He stood and with a polite smile and made what was, as Hathaway translated, indeed an invitation to lunch, seeing as how there was nothing they could do while they waited for news of Cornish's pending capture.

They dressed Fahrid up in borrowed clothes, put a hat and sunglasses on him, and headed out of the station, led by Salvo. As he passed the desk officer's station, he banged on the glass and roared an order at the hapless man inside. Hathaway glanced curiously at Fazio, who leaned over with explanation in Italian.

"_If there's any news, Catarella is to interrupt our lunch. Normally, that would not be allowed_."

"_Is he always so sharp with that man?_"

Fazio looked surprised that anyone would think it unusual. "_Oh, sure, Catarella's used to that. Doesn't bother him. You have to make things very clear to Catarella, and even then he gets it wrong_."

They arrived at a small place called Enzo a Mare, and it was immediately apparent that the commissario was well known there and treated like a benefactor. The staff all greeted him by name, and the owner personally came to identify the specials. It all went by a bit too fast for Hathaway, but he was looking forward to this experience, genuine Sicilian cuisine. He was learning by now that, for Salvo, eating was not something one did for mere survival. It was practically a religion in itself.

Lewis was a bit more hesitant about this lunch. "Did he just order for us all? What are we going to be eating? Horse, again?"

Laura squeezed his hand, sensing his trepidation. "Don't worry, Robbie, it will be fine. I'm sure everything will be delicious."

Lewis's tastes had expanded greatly since his trip to Italy with Morse, when he had turned up his nose at a selection of some of the finest cured meats in the world. And when the appetizer came, little cubes of _something _in a wee sort of tart crust, he dug right in. It was some kind of fish, he decided. And quite good, at that.

Hathaway leaned over: "Tonno crudo, sir. How is it?"

"What's _that_ when it's at home? And it's good, anyway."

"Raw tuna. Sir."

Lewis shot a look that proved James had failed to ruffle him. He'd won that round.

Next came _pasta ai ricci_, which Enzo—bringing the dishes himself—pronounced "ri-chee." Laura thumbed quickly through her pocket dictionary, but her result brought only puzzlement to her brow.

"Well? What is it?" Lewis urged, his hand on the back of her chair.

"Burrs? Or hedgehogs. I don't think . . ." She broke off, confused.

Fazio glanced at James. "Ricci di mare." He tried to provide a gesture to go with his words, but couldn't think of anything.

James leaned over to Lewis and Laura. "Mare: the sea. 'Burrs of the sea' would be sea urchins."

James's interpretation was received and considered. But Lewis's attention was fixed on Salvo. As the dish was brought to him, his nose tracked it through the air, his eyes closed, blissful. It was as though everyone else in the room ceased to exist. He raised a forkful to his mouth, inhaled again, bit down, and then slid the fork from his mouth. He gave a low moan and chewed slowly, transported to another existence while he savored the mouthful.

Both Robbie and James watched, amazed, and then both at the same time glanced at Fazio, who was clearly amused. He shrugged, helplessly, and whispered to James, "_He's always like this. Good food is his true love_."

While it didn't affect him as it did Salvo, Lewis found the pasta rather tasty. It reminded him of the mussels and whelks he'd enjoyed as a lad, growing up Tyneside. Not that he'd gotten them often. And for all their rareness, they were to be considered a treat when they were available. Even the ones that still had a bit of sand in them.

Robbie sat back in his chair, fully satisfied. But to his astonishment, Enzo brought around yet another course, and this one included two dishes: one he called "_falsomagro_" and one that held "_broccoli affogati_."

Robbie dug into this, smiling at Laura. "Well, _this_ I recognize. Good old broccoli." But the first bite immobilized him. Not merely "good old broccoli," this was flavored with onion, cheese, red wine, and something a little bit fishy and a little bit salty. He turned to James. "_Affogati_, I heard that word before; it's what, now? Drowned, isn't it?"

"Drowned, yes, Sir." Hathaway chewed thoughtfully. "Bit of anchovy in there, if I'm not mistaken."

"And this other thing? Some sort of beef, I hope."

James picked at his, identifying the various components.

"Beef, rolled around . . . boiled eggs, obviously . . . some sort of cheese and something like, erm, luncheon meat? And then of course tomato sauce."

Lewis did not share his bagman's distaste for this dish. "Eggs, meat, more meat? I think I'm learning to like Sicilian cooking!" He dispatched it enthusiastically.

Salvo enjoyed watching his new friends eat _almost_ as much as he enjoyed eating it himself. And Fazio shared a smile with James: amusement at the foibles of their senior officers, and how easily—or not, in some circumstances—they were distracted from their bad moods.

This "_secondo_" course was followed by a small salad, then the choice of dessert and espresso. Salvo swallowed an entire cannoli in pretty much one bite, Lewis and Laura shared one, and Fazio, Fahrid, and Hathaway excused themselves for a smoke, Fazio abstaining.

Fazio nudged Hathaway in the ribs with his elbow. "_Come on, what is it you want to say?_"

Hathaway snorted. "_It's that obvious? Well, I'm wondering why you don't sedate him with food all the time, rather than put up with those moods where he seems so dangerous. In England, an inspector with violent tendencies like that would find himself facing an internal inquiry!_"

Fazio simply smiled warmly, replying, "_And would you stifle your boss that way? When his brain works in such mysterious ways, travels paths you can't follow, makes conclusions that seem unsupported but turn out to be absolutely correct?_" It was as though he had personally experienced the relationship that existed between James and Robbie. And he already knew the answer to his question.

A pensive crease furrowed Hathaway's brow. "_He took the news of the pending mafia war pretty well_."

Fazio ducked his eyes behind his hand, swallowing hard. "_I . . . didn't actually have a chance to mention that. Guess it won't hurt if another hour passes before he finds out_."

The relative tranquility of the moment was shattered by a human missile hurtling into the restaurant and nearly upsetting the cup of espresso held daintily in Salvo's fingers. James and Fahrid dropped their cigarettes and the three young men dashed back inside.

"Dottore, dottore!"

Salvo's mood immediately blackened, and he roared at his unfortunate desk officer. "Catarella?!" Almost more of a threat than a question. And the answer came so rapidly, and with such a thick Sicilian accent, that Hathaway could not understand one single word the man said. But his mannerisms, extraordinarily apologetic and subservient, conveyed bad news with urgent action required.

Salvo's sudden leaping up galvanized the entire company, though not many of them understood what was occurring.

Fazio grabbed at Hathaway's arm, turning toward him and speaking at first too rapidly, then taking a deep breath and repeating the words at a rate Hathaway could understand. "_Cornish, the boat he took, he crashed it; the Coast Guard herded him north and he hit the rocks on an island off Tuscany_." He checked, and Hathaway was with him so far.

"_He took off overland and barricaded himself in a house there._ _He's taken a woman_ in ostaggio . . ." Fazio's expression tightened when he saw that James did not understand the last word. "_Erm_ . . . " He grabbed Catarella with an arm around the neck and held an index-finger gun to the man's temple.

"Eh, Fazio! Che c'è?" But Fazio was too intent on James to answer.

"Hostage, yes, I get it, go on." Hathaway thought perhaps he had never nodded so much in his entire life.

"_He wants_ Luìs." Fazio gestured animatedly while talking, though Hathaway understood most of what he said even without the sign language. "_He refuses to talk to anyone else_." Then, a quick snort. "_Which is fine, seeing as how apparently no one else can understand the_ figlio di puttana."


	8. Chapter 6

Not very many minutes later, Robbie, James, and Salvo were belted into a police-owned turboprop plane, racing up to Grosseto near the Tuscan coast. They would have to take a helicopter from there: there was no landing strip on Isola del Giglio, the island where Jack had crashed. It was decided that these three were necessary; Salvo and James would act as interpreters between Lewis and the Carabinieri. Fazio, Fahrid, and Laura were following in a substantially slower police helicopter that picked them up soon after the jet took off. There had been some official resistance about taking the two civilians, but Salvo had had a rather heated telephone exchange with his superior, the _Questore_, and suddenly everything was workable. Lewis raised an eyebrow at Hathaway when their problems were magically resolved, but all Hathaway could do was shrug. "They do things their own way, Sir. I have no idea how it works."

In the helicopter, Fahrid and Laura held each other up; she was no fan of helicopter flight and he was as strong and brave as could be as long as she was with him. Fazio could only wonder what would happen to Fahrid when this was all over—would Salvo use him as a witness against Cornish and then leave him to his fate? And what else was there that could be done, anyway? He gave Laura a reassuring smile, but he was pretty sure she saw through it. He sighed. At the rate they were flying, it would be hours before they reached the island.

There was just as little conversation in the planeload of detectives heading north. Salvo was working through his own thoughts, and Lewis and Hathaway had little to say to each other. Lewis mentally reviewed all his hostage-situation training. He'd been in such situations quite a few times in the past; in several of them, _he_ had been the hostage. How well he would succeed in negotiating with Jack would depend on how cooperative the Italians were as well as Jack's state of mind. He had worked out any number of alternative approaches by the time they neared their destination.

When they got to Grosseto, they hustled from the plane to the helicopter pad. Lewis turned to say something to Hathaway, and realized the man had gone completely green.

"Hathaway, man, are you alright?"

James suppressed a belch, covering his mouth with his hand. "I'm not so sure pasta with sea urchins is the best choice for a pre-flight dish." He swallowed. And swallowed again.

Lewis was unsympathetic. "Look, if you're going to spew, man, do it now so we don't have to smell it all the way over to the island!"

The younger man's brow furrowed in disbelief at the total lack of sympathy. But then a sudden urgency overtook him, and he whirled away from the other two men, bent at the waist, and coughed up one very disgusting mess onto the tarmac.

Salvo watched, amused. It relieved him to see the high level of comfort and trust between the English inspector and his sergeant. They reminded him of himself and Fazio, the way they anticipated each other's thoughts and words, and how they had a relationship built on mutual respect. This meant they both were skilled in their profession and humane but not fawning in their treatment of each other. He also understood that by identifying with them, he was making it harder on himself to disallow the extradition. He wanted to help them; he genuinely liked the Geordie copper, as well as his rather austere, tall bagman. But he had his own case to consider, not to mention the pressure put on him by his superiors. He knew he would have to make a hard choice at some point.

* * *

They took positions overlooking a rough stone farmhouse, halfway up a rugged hillside. Hathaway's eyes widened when, as they settled into their posts, Salvo pulled a sizeable Beretta out from where he'd had it tucked into his waistband. He wasn't used to seeing plainclothesmen carrying handguns. Positioned with the Sicilian as backup, Lewis had used a megaphone to call to Jack as soon as they had arrived. But there was no answer for what seemed like hours, though it was in fact closer to fifty or fifty-five minutes before at long last there was a response, and an unmistakably English voice shouted from the farmhouse.

"Robbie! How are you liking Italy? I'd have thought you'd prefer to vacation nearer to home; you were never the international traveler, were you?" The voice was mocking, as it had been ever since Jack had gone off course.

"I'm not here on vacation any more, Jack. C'mon, you don't want to deal with these Italians. Have some sense for once, man, come out and you can go back to England and deal with a reasonable justice system."

"Come back to England to die in prison, you mean."

"Not necessarily. We've got Faulkner for the murders and the drugs transport scheme. I expect you can hire a lawyer clever enough to cut a decent deal with CPS."

"I don't want to spend a day in prison."

"Then you should have considered that fact before you got into this mess."

Lewis heaved a sigh. It was exhausting, these negotiations. He really was getting too old. He wished Laura was there, then he'd have the energy to continue.

James and Salvo exchanged a significant look. They both could tell Lewis was losing enthusiasm for what seemed destined to end with gunfire. Salvo gently squeezed Hathaway's arm and whispered urgently. "Deve continuare."

James shrugged, Italian-style, to indicate his helplessness. "_I know he must keep at it. But how can I make him?_" And he got a helpless shrug in return.

Lewis saw the despair of his colleagues, and it urged him on. _They're all counting on me to do something here_. It went against his nature to disappoint people.

"C'mon Jack. You know under either legal system you're likely to get out after at most a handful of years, though I wouldn't envy you serving time in an Italian prison. But if you continue this standoff, I can't account for the excitability of the Italian police. I dunno what it takes to get them to start shooting. They're not like us." He paused, but there was no answer. "You have a lot of life left, Jack. Why throw it away? Why give them the satisfaction?"

Lewis had given Cornish something to think about, and the standoff continued. Meanwhile, Hathaway and Salvo, each with a hand on the other's shoulder, worked on angles to improve their bargaining position. Salvo, although technically not authorized to do so, ordered information from the Carabinieri—who was the woman being held hostage, and what was the layout of the farmhouse? Hathaway linked his phone with the corrections system back in England—what was the current status of Faulkner's incarceration?

Between them, they deduced that Peter Faulkner could be up for parole in a few years. Damning evidence from his co-defendant could keep him behind bars for a long time. And the woman being held was Carlotta Gabrielli, widowed at the young age of 32, her deceased husband an island fisherman, lost at sea six years ago . . . She had two sons, ages 8 and 10, who had been pulled from their school classes when it was understood their mum was in danger.

Salvo peered into Hathaway's eyes. "_Will _Luìs_ talk him out of it? Will he get him to surrender?_"

James couldn't be certain, of course. But Salvo would have known this. It was Hathaway's gut he was asking. And Hathaway's gut had a clear answer. "_He'll get him, Sir_."

Salvo grabbed hold of Hathaway's head with both hands and kissed him soundly on the forehead. He pulled back, smirking guiltily at James, knowing his reaction had been unexpected by the innately more reserved Englishman, and a bit embarrassed at his own exuberance. "Bravo, James. Bravo, Luìs."

Although to James they had been on that rock for no more than a few minutes, enough time had passed that he saw Fazio, Fahrid, and Laura had arrived and were disembarking from their helicopter. Hathaway realized that Lewis must have been negotiating with Jack for maybe two hours or more. He frowned, concentrating on the condition his boss was in. And it was not good. Lewis was clearly exhausted, physically and mentally, his posture was that of a man defeated, slumping into himself, resigned. It didn't help that the weather was turning sour as well, a nasty wind picking up and a spit or two of rain in with the gusts. James waved frantically toward Laura, _Come, come, come!_ She broke through the cordon the Carabinieri had set around the area and dashed across the rocks, skidding to a halt at James's side.

"How is he holding up?"

"He needs you, Laura. He needs a big emotional boost. He thinks he's losing Jack, thinks even if he succeeds, that he'll lose Jack to the Italians—it's not true; I'm certain Salvo wants to hand him over, you must tell him . . ." Hathaway tried not to sound so desperate, but he knew he had failed at that.

Laura set her jaw. Salvo watched her, recognizing that she was a woman who knew what she wanted and knew how to get it—whether that required action or inaction. In the back of his mind, he was glad that she was not _his_ woman. He had enough trouble when his Livia decided she knew what she wanted.

"Robbie." Laura pushed her way to where Lewis stood with the megaphone. Cell phone service was tenuous here, intermittent and unreliable, and there had been no thought that they would connect with Jack in any other way than the traditional shouting with megaphone enhancement.

James saw the yoke of weight fly from Lewis's neck as he greeted Laura with a long kiss.

"James tells me you're not so sure you can bring Jack in without bloodshed." She made the statement, but her expression showed disbelief.

He couldn't disappoint her. "A'course I can bring him in without bloodshed, as long as those bloody Italians can control their trigger fingers!"

He put the megaphone to his mouth again. "Jack! Let's be done with this." This time, he was smiling confidently.

As he turned his energy to convincing Jack Cornish to surrender, Salvo turned his attention to warning the Italians that they should not move.

* * *

It had been some five hours of negotiation, but Jack Cornish walked out of the farmhouse, having thrown down his automatic rifle, having released the Gigliesa island woman, having committed himself to the hands of Robbie Lewis. And Robbie went down, alone, to meet Jack and to personally put the handcuffs on him. Jack was taken alive. And Carlotta, his hostage, was released alive. Hathaway intervened on her behalf, wrapping her in a blanket, shepherding her toward her sons, hovering while she nearly collapsed with relief. And then providing a strong arm, a strong spine, to help her up and back to her house; erasing the traces of Jack's forced entry, getting the tea, settling the sons at their homework, ensuring that Carlotta was at last sufficiently relaxed in her home.

"_Will you be alright?_" James asked in what he hoped was correct Italian.

"_Of course, of course. As long as you're going to look out for me_." She was halfway teasing, he could tell. But he could also tell she was using humor to deflect her fright. He reached forward, on edge, to take her into his arms, if she was amenable . . .

She flung herself at him, embracing strong and hard. "_Oh, please, do not leave me! I am so frightened_ . . ."

Hathaway threw a look of helplessness toward the two inspectors who hovered in the doorway, but they were focused on other matters. Salvo gave him a crooked smile and turned away; Lewis raised his eyebrows helplessly, indicating that James was on his own with Carlotta.

Lewis had no way of knowing whether Salvo was still claiming Jack Cornish as his own prisoner. They walked together in silence to where the Carabinieri were securing Cornish in a car to take him to the dock. There, they would load him onto one of the police boats for transport to the mainland. The expression the commissario gave Lewis was grim—not gloating, not smug, definitely not at all happy. He hated bad weather.

Counting on the fact that they could communicate when they both wanted to, Lewis approached cautiously.

"So, now what? I brought him in, didn't I?" He included hand motions connecting himself to Jack, in case the words weren't enough.

Salvo put a hand on Lewis's shoulder. "Sì; bravo, Luìs." But then he looked away and made eye contact with Fahrid, pointed at Jack, and asked, "Cornish?"

Fahrid nodded. "Yes, that is the man who called himself Jack Cornish. He took my money. He took François's money. I hope he rots in prison!"

Lewis watched Salvo as though he could see the thoughts flickering across the bald man's skull, and resigned himself to the conclusion that the commissario was tending toward not approving the extradition. He wanted to reserve judgment on the man, but it was difficult not to conclude that Salvo was exactly as Lewis had originally expected him to be: self-interested and mafia-funded.

Hathaway was at his side all of the sudden, with a bit of a flush to his face.

"Sergeant? Did you get that island woman settled okay?"

More of a flush. "Erm, yeah, she's fine." A bit of throat-clearing, then, and he declined to explain further. "I was wondering how the negotiations are going between you and our Sicilian friend."

"Not _my_ friend, if I read him correctly." He nodded toward where Salvo had a mobile to his ear, exchanging heated words with the party at the other end.

James cozied up to Fazio. "_What's going on there?_" nodding toward the commissario on his mobile.

"_He's asked about Cornish being handed over to you, but he's meeting a lot of resistance from his superiors. You know, politics at the higher levels . . ._"

James did know. Sometimes there was nothing you could do. "_So . . . it's the higher-ups that are the problem?_"

Fazio's expression indicated he really didn't know.

But as the two junior officers and Lewis all watched in amazement, Salvo muttered brokenly into his phone, tapped it a few times, then said that he couldn't understand, couldn't hear, he was losing the connection . . . and he suddenly snapped the phone off completely and tossed it to Fazio. Then he looked up, surprised to find he had an audience, and shrugged with a guilty smile. _Not my fault I lost the connection!_

* * *

They all went down to the Giglio Porto docks—Jack in handcuffs with a police escort in the car; Lewis, Hathaway, Salvo, Fazio, Laura, Fahrid, various Carabinieri officers, as well as local fire department officers, as far as Hathaway could tell, were all included in the parade of foot traffic down to the quiet little harbor.

They assembled on the outermost dock, waiting for their transport boat to arrive. Hathaway lit up another cigarette, and made friends with at least five Italian officers by offering his pack all around.

The Carabinieri were clearly operating under the assumption that they were going to transport Jack to the mainland and hand him over to the Penitentiary Police. But Salvo put a hand on Lewis's sleeve, averting his eyes submissively. "Mi dispiace, dottore. Lei . . ." he wasn't sure how to continue, and he looked to Hathaway to help him out.

Lewis touched James's arm, his face stoney. "I expect here's where you tell me he intends to keep Jack."

Hathaway tried to look more optimistic as he consulted with the commissario. But when he reported back, his news was not encouraging. "He's not refusing yet. But he's not authorized to release Jack to us, either. Of course, in part, it's up to him to convince his superiors of what is best. Whether he doesn't want to do that, or simply isn't enthusiastic enough to argue our case, I can't be certain."

Lewis sighed heavily. But his mood was lightened when Laura slipped her arm through his. "Robbie?" He looked her in the eyes then, and kissed her spontaneously. It was nice to have her company now. He remembered how Val could calm him, help him think clearly, just by being there and putting an arm around him. He smiled more broadly and without sadness as he realized Laura had the same effect on him.

But her focus was elsewhere. "Robbie, what is that?" She nodded past the harbor to a point of rock where an enormous vessel sat, unnaturally deep in the water, with numerous smaller vessels buzzing about it or anchored close by. Lewis wasn't certain, and one glance at his "walking Wikipedia" was enough to get Hathaway started.

"It's the wreck of the Costa Concordia, the huge cruise ship that ran aground in January 2012. Remember?"

She did remember, but she had never been clear on where that had happened. "Oh, they turned it upright not that long ago, didn't they?" She gazed at the dirty white hull. "It's sad, isn't it?"

James studied her, curious. "Well, I suppose, yes. But the entire salvage operation is an engineering marvel. What they're doing here to right her, raise her, and carry her away has never been done on this scale before. It's quite interesting." He noted her expression. "No, really. It's unprecedented."

Lewis suppressed a grin. _Hathaway has the oddest definition of 'interesting',_ he thought.

Laura sighed. "I still think it's sad."

Robbie squeezed her hand, silently telling her how he loved when something brought out her tenderness. But his musing was disturbed by a humming in the background, getting louder, and now more resembling an engine revving. His internal alarm began to sound as he strained to identify the noise.

"_GIU'!_"

Men threw themselves down on the dock as a long-prowed speedboat raced by the harbor, strafing it with machine-gun fire. Salvo flung himself at Laura, and she fell beneath him, his hands protectively curved around her head. Then the rain of bullets stopped and the boat sped away.

Salvo lifted his head and looked around for Fazio. His 'right arm' was just a few feet away, and their eyes connected. _Mafia_, Fazio mouthed, but the commissario shook his head, frowning, not understanding why the mafia would take such an interest in their proceedings. Then he heard a loud groan of pain.

Of all the men standing on the dock at the moment one unknown Carabiniero shouted "DOWN!" in Italian, three did not understand the word and so reacted too late when the machine-gun fire began. Jack Cornish. Fahrid Moussa. Robbie Lewis.

Salvo stood and helped Laura to her feet. When she saw almost everyone else getting to their feet except Robbie, saw the blood on his clothes, saw that he wasn't moving at all, she bolted toward him. Salvo caught her shoulder and pulled her back.

"No, Laura, no!" He had no idea how well she was accustomed to blood and guts. She struggled against his grasp but she could tell he was too strong for her, and he wouldn't let go. She turned and stared him directly in the eyes, but he was shaking his head and trying to calm her. He shushed her anguished _Nooo!_, but she would not be denied. She jerked her knee up—swift, sharp, and hard—between his legs.

Wordlessly, and almost in slow motion, his mouth gaped, his eyes watered, and he bent over, dropping his hands too late to protect himself, and he nearly fell, gasping, retching, stumbling.

Laura lost no time watching his pain but turned and ran to Robbie's side as he lay motionless on the concrete. "Robbie? Robbie?" She desperately sought some sign of life, of consciousness, of anything but the worst possible outcome.

Almost immediately, James was at her side, and together they checked Lewis for a pulse—_There!_—and for some kind of consciousness. But in the latter, they were not rewarded. The doctor-sense in Laura kicked in then, and she realized there were two other people lying motionless on the dock. Jack Cornish lay next to Robbie, and he was also alive and, like Robbie, unconscious. Then she checked Fahrid, and found him barely awake but with consciousness ebbing, and groaning in considerable pain. He smiled faintly when Laura bent over him and cradled his head in her hands.

"You have been so kind to me. Thank you."

Laura felt tears rise, but she resisted the urge to cry: the men needed help right away. She locked eyes on one of the Carabinieri, one she had marked as being a higher-ranking officer: "We need helicopters! These people need a hospital!" Between Fazio and Hathaway, the message got through quickly, and within minutes they heard the pulse of approaching helicopters.

Only after all that, did she check to see how Salvo was doing. He sat on a concrete traffic barricade, his face screwed up in pain, and he leaned away as she approached, as though trying to put distance between himself and this dangerous woman. She put on her most apologetic face. "I'm really sorry, Salvo. I didn't mean to hurt you." He flinched when she touched his shoulder. She took his chin in her hands to bring his eyes to hers, and she gave him the softest look she could manage. "Really. Erm, mi dispiace. Molto. Molto-molto."

She earned only a grimace from him. He waved her off without making a clear acceptance of her apology. Fazio approached to see what he could do for his boss. As Laura straightened, she turned to him. "I really am . . . mi dispiace molto." Salvo's bagman looked very protective of him, and he said something to Hathaway, who translated for Laura: "Apparently Salvo thought you were too delicate to handle blood and torn flesh."

Fazio wondered at their shared mirth in response to his explanation. Hathaway pointed to Laura. "E' patologista!" _A pathologist_. Fazio snorted at the irony and with a wry grin, gestured toward the stricken Salvo. "He need . . . la sua amore viene qua presto . . ." With his accompanying gestures, she got it well enough. Salvo was expecting a visit from his girlfriend. And he would need his injured parts to function.

She smothered a giggle and mustered up a sympathetic expression. "I'm so sorry, Salvo. But you came between me and Robbie . . ." Her gestures provided the rest of the explanation. "I can't help you with that." She waved toward his injury.

He couldn't suppress a low groan.


	9. Chapter 7

They ended up in Grosseto on the mainland. The regional hospital was there, as well as the police and judicial facilities they would likely need for the entirety of the operation. Lewis, Fahrid, and Cornish were all under close care, all three unconscious at the moment. As soon as they arrived from the island of Giglio, the interested parties from England and Sicily gathered at the hospital to see about the conditions of the injured men.

Hathaway sought out Salvo, and found him morose and hunched over a cup of espresso from the hospital café. "_Can we talk about Cornish?_"

His question earned him a bitter look and a dismissive wave.

"_I can't negotiate with you, I need a senior officer_."

Any further attempts by James to negotiate directly were ignored, shut down, or otherwise rendered null and void. Hathaway sidled up to Laura as she hunched over her cuppa, waiting on word about Lewis's condition.

"You not only injured the commissario's family jewels, you may have done some damage to our success here."

Puzzled and peeved, she considered what he'd said. "How could I have done that, Hathaway?"

"With one well-placed knee, you took out a perfectly cooperative person with the authority to extradite Jack! How can you not be aware of that?"

"He's still mentally functional, Hathaway!"

"Mentally, maybe, but not emotionally. He's pivotal to this. I think we had his sympathy right up until you damaged his manhood."

She shrugged, unable to undo what she'd done.

* * *

Jean Innocent picked up her phone, glad at last to have news of how the Italian contingent were getting on.

"Hathaway, good evening, how are things in Italy?"

There was a momentary pause, then a snort. None of which boded well for the upcoming report.

"Well, Ma'am. Lewis has been shot by the mafia and is injured and unconscious in hospital. Jack Cornish also has been shot by the mafia and is injured and unconscious in hospital. But I'm okay, and Laura Hobson is uninjured. The Italians aren't certain they're going to allow extradition, but it obviously depends on whether Jack survives and whether their star witness—who, oh, did I mention? was also shot by the mafia and is injured and wavering on unconsciousness?—survives."

Jean took 12 full seconds to absorb this news.

"Hathaway? Are you telling me you haven't gotten the Italians to release Cornish yet? What are you waiting for?"

She was about to close the connection, but she heard James's immediate protestations.

"Ma'am, the thing is, with Lewis out of commission, I can't negotiate with the commissario; I'm not authorized because I'm not of high enough rank."

He pretty much could hear her frown as she mulled over what he was saying. To help her along, he continued. "We need at least a detective inspector to deal with him, according to their procedures. And I don't think Cornish will be willing, assuming he wakes up."

"Are you saying _I_ need to come to Italy to complete the negotiations?"

Hathaway stared at his phone, wondering what part of "I'm not authorized" she didn't understand. "Erm, YES, that's what I'm saying. Someone ranking higher than me needs to be here!"

* * *

Jean Innocent could hardly be expected to carry her own bags. She and D.C. Alex Gray arrived in Tuscany mid-evening to do what they could to further the negotiations for Jack Cornish's extradition, with Hathaway and Fazio picking them up from the airport in a rented car. The entire way to the hospital, Jean gripped the car door handle with one hand and the seat with the other as Fazio sped through traffic, careening around turns, zipping past slower cars, and braking hard when necessary.

Jack, Fahrid, and Lewis were all still alive, the Englishmen both still unconscious, and Jean noted only one of them had a visitor: Laura sat with Robbie, her face drawn and pale. Jean greeted her with sympathetic eyes, then peered at Robbie's bandaged head.

"How bad . . .?"

Laura shrugged. "A bullet grazed his head. They think it shouldn't be too serious, but they're concerned that he's still unconscious." She glanced at Hathaway and Fazio. "These two guys have been a great team for getting information from the doctors." She gave them a grateful smile.

Jean turned to the two men, specifically addressing Fazio. "Erm, could you excuse us a moment? Scusi?"

Fazio nodded agreeably and went out to the corridor. Jean looked from Laura to Hathaway. "This commissario—what's he like to deal with?"

They spoke at the same time, except the last word of their two sentences differed considerably:

"He can be a real—

—prick."

—charmer."

Jean's eyes flicked from one to the other and back again. "Ah." Then, "Hathaway, I'd like to meet with him as soon as possible, get this all straightened out. And then assuming D.C. Gray has us successfully checked in, I can relax and get a decent night's sleep."

Hathaway glanced at Laura before answering. "Erm, Ma'am, they don't do things like that here. The commissario is probably at his hotel room for the night, and morning meetings come late here. Let's get Fazio back in here and see how early we can set something up."

They managed to set a meeting for half past eight at the hospital, since it was where they'd all end up, anyway. Secretly, Fazio thought it would be a miracle if Salvo showed before nine.

* * *

Jean strode briskly back to the hotel. She found Gray in the hotel bar, uncomfortably sipping a beer. He looked like a man who had been caught out, and he pointed embarrassedly to the half-empty glass.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, I didn't feel right sitting here not buying a drink and I didn't know how to order anything else."

She stared for a moment, then smiled. "That's fine, Alex, really. I myself could use something to relax with."

She caught a waiter's eye and ordered a glass of red wine. But Jean had caught the eye of more than the waiter. As she sipped, gazing around at the other faces in the bar, her eyes settled on a man who looked to be in his early 50s; he was tan and had vivid blue eyes and an aquiline nose, and wavy, jet-black hair just brushing the collar of his crisp white shirt. He noted the eye contact, and smiled.

"If you don't mind, Ma'am," Gray said, draining his glass, "I'd as soon make an early night of it."

"No, that's fine. I won't be long, either, I expect." Gray didn't notice how distractedly she spoke. But as he turned to go, the other man was ready to take his place next to his boss. He flashed a scowl that was returned with a smile of straight, white teeth. Then the man turned away from Gray and introduced himself to Jean—in English, but with an Italian accent like liquid gold.

"Good evening, miss. I apologize for being so forward, but I couldn't help noticing what a beautiful smile you have. May I get you another glass of wine?"

She realized hers was already empty, and nodded her assent. "Yes, thank you. Lovely." _Lovely . . . his voice is so lovely_.

"I'm Giorgio. And you are . . . ?"

Gray grimaced at the man's transparent ploy, and headed off to his room, confident that Innocent had the sense to brush the fellow off when she'd had enough.

* * *

Salvo was there at half-past eight on the dot, joining Fazio, Gray, and Hathaway. But there was no sign of Jean Innocent. His eyes wide with regret, Salvo held out his hands, palm up, helplessly. "_I want to let you have him – but where is your authority?_" Gray scrambled off to see if he could find her, while Hathaway could merely shrug.

At an impasse, Salvo sent Fazio to find some coffee and something to eat. It didn't take the junior officer long to return from the hospital café, but after a single bite, the commissario threw his roll back in the bag in disgust. His expression did not need a translator. Fazio bolted for the exit and James eagerly offered to go with him. Fortunately, they didn't have too far to find a bakery with more suitable pastries, a few hundred meters from the hospital's main entrance was all it took. Congratulating themselves on their success, they strode quickly back to where they'd left the commissario. But he was gone.

They looked down the corridor, checked around the corners, and even popped into the men's room, but he was not to be found. As a last resort, they split up; three minutes later, Fazio rang James on his mobile.

"_I found him, James. He's with Fahrid_."

They entered the room quietly. Salvo sat beside Fahrid's bed, holding the lad's hand in both of his. His eyes were moist. Fahrid gave the two newcomers a small smile.

"He's been talking to me in Italian," he explained to James. "I have no idea what he was saying, but it sounded so nice. He was saying something about François."

"Your friend, François?" James asked.

"I think he meant someone else."

Salvo sighed and squeezed Fahrid's hand as he rose. "Arrivederla, Fahrid." He smiled gently, as though there was no question Fahrid would be fine.

They went out and Fazio handed over the coffee and pastry. This time, Salvo carefully sniffed the offering before his face registered satisfaction. And the two bagmen were rewarded with a luminous expression of bliss after the first bite. But just then, Laura burst around the corner, her face beaming with happiness.

"There you are! Robbie's awake!"

Salvo shot a glance at Hathaway. _Let's go!_ it clearly said. Breakfast was forgotten.

* * *

They gathered in Lewis's hospital room, much to the dismay of his nurse. Laura held Robbie's hand and beamed at him. He was conscious, aware, and eager to deal with matters concerning Jack Cornish.

Salvo began with an apology and an explanation (via Hathaway):

"_I'm sorry to have stretched this out so long. When Fahrid appeared, and I had a real chance at making a case against Cornish, I had to reassess my decision. I hope you understand. My_ questore _put unusual pressure on me to not give you satisfaction_." He repeated, adding meaning by his emphasis: "_Unusual pressure._"

Lewis checked with Hathaway, "Questore, that's his Chief Super?"

"Higher than that. More like Chief Constable, Sir. Salvo is the head of his station."

"Oh." Lewis had assumed he and the commissario were of equal rank. He asked his next question directly to Salvo, using the Italian phrase he'd heard the man repeat. "By _pressione insolito_ you mean that, erm, criminal influence you mentioned earlier?" He mimed zipping his lip.

Salvo shrugged, but with a knowing expression.

"And you submit to that kind of _pressione insolito_?" Lewis couldn't quite keep the disgust from creeping into his voice.

The Sicilian's eyes darkened, and he stared hard at Robbie. Fazio took a step backward, and Hathaway, noticing this, took a step forward.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the inspector, Salvo reached his right hand inside his jacket. Hathaway sucked in a breath.

Salvo pulled out a notebook, flipped to a page, then commandeered Fazio's mobile, thumbing it as he raised it to his ear. James exhaled, relieved, and Fazio gave him a funny look. Embarrassed, James grinned foolishly. "_I thought for a second he was going to . . . Never mind._"

Fazio snorted. "_He gets angry, yeah, but never out of control. Anyway, we've already seen that your boss can survive being shot at_."

Hathaway listened in as Salvo spoke into the phone. His tone was just barely on the respectful side of curt, and he lied blatantly, saying that the hoped-for witness had been unable to identify Cornish. He had known this, he said, but had maintained the ruse to try and flush out the mafia. The shout from the other end of the line was loud enough even for James to hear – _Well, you brought them out alright, it's taking a lot of effort here in Vigàta to quell the backlash_.

Without replying, Salvo cut off the call. Then he made a quick bow of his head to Lewis. "Cornish—you." He waved his hand to connect Lewis and Jack, then took the papers from his jacket and handed them to his English counterpart.

Lewis gaped at the apparent swiftness of the decision, but when he glanced at the signatures on the last page, he saw the one that had been missing was now filled in. His eyes shot to Salvo's.

"How did you . . . ?" He pointed to the final signature.

Salvo tipped his head in Fazio's direction. Fazio muttered something to James, who conveyed the information. "The helicopter stopped in Catania on the way north so Fazio could get it. Salvo wanted to have it in case he decided in your favor."

Lewis squinted. "So it was up to him all along, there on the island, only the Questore didn't know that."

"Yeah, pretty much."

Salvo stepped forward and warmly shook Robbie's hand. Lewis returned the Sicilian's generous smile, and the two inspectors knew they had built between them mutual trust and respect, despite everything. And Salvo glared at Fazio, daring him to say anything, _anything_, the least bit congratulatory.

Fazio knew better. "_Too bad we couldn't make our case, Sir_." Fazio's expression conveyed far more truth than his words.

"Sì. Che peccato!"


	10. Chapter 8

It didn't take Detective Constable Gray long to break into Jean's room, given the lockpicking abilities he acquired in his youth and the antiquated state of the door lock. He'd already tried ringing her mobile multiple times with no luck; she apparently had it switched off or was out of range. He could tell as soon as he stepped into the room that she hadn't been there much, just enough to leave her bags on one of the beds.

He blew out his cheeks. Well, she'd last been seen in the presence of that Giorgio, so he set himself to the task of finding out what he could about the fellow.

The man at the front desk turned out to be a font of information. And he spoke English! Giorgio was not staying at their hotel, he explained, but usually he stayed at one down a few miles away in Marina di Grosseto, on the beach. The deskman believed Giorgio was some kind of ship's officer, possibly a captain. He was arrogant enough. He lived somewhere to the south, his accent sounded Neapolitan, and he had a wife down there. But he was in town often on some sort of legal matter, and when he was, he stalked the hotel bar for women to keep him company for the night.

The man hadn't been on duty last night, but he was able to direct Gray to a security office where they were happy to review security camera video of the front door. And sure enough, just at the bar's closing time of 1:00 a.m., Gray could identify Jean on the arm of the man he'd barely met the night before.

"Ugh, where'd they go?" He muttered when they disappeared from the screen.

"Giorgio?" It seemed the security man knew him, too. And it seemed he also knew enough English to get Gray the name of the man's hotel in Marina di Grosseto and to help him hail a taxi and get it headed in the right direction.

And although there was no answer to his knock on the hotel room door, he soon found them walking with their arms around each other along the incredibly beautiful beach that stretched for miles along the Tyrrhenian Sea. Jean's first sight of Gray, unexpected and out of context, brought creases of puzzlement to her brow. Then she gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. She turned hastily to her handsome companion.

"I have to go right now, I should have been in Grosseto hours ago! You've managed to keep me up all night, you handsome devil!" She swatted him playfully on the bottom, and turned to go.

But he grabbed her arm, pulling her to himself, and kissed her hard on the mouth, grinding his hips into her.

"You can't leave now, Jean! What about . . . ? You promised!"

She pushed him off, startled by his sudden aggressiveness, and Gray stepped up, his stance assertive and threatening. Gray never knew what it was Jean might have promised the man. Didn't want to think about it, though of course suspicions crept into his head. He merely glared protectively in Giorgio's direction, and hustled his D.C.I. back toward the front of the hotel, where they soon caught a taxi back to the city.

* * *

Less than two hours after he'd left, D.C. Gray stuck his head into Lewis's hospital room. He at last had found his colleagues, and his face broke into a sunny grin when he saw Lewis awake and smiling. He opened the door wide to allow Jean to enter.

"Looks like they're all here, Ma'am."

She swept into the room, a bit breathless. "Lewis! Well done. And Salvo—" she held her hands out apologetically. "I am very sorry to have kept you waiting. Now, can we talk like reasonable people about extraditing Jack Cornish?"

Salvo's eyes slid to Robbie's, and Lewis saw there was a touch of devilment in them. He took his cue.

"Erm, Ma'am . . ." Lewis began, his voice faltering a little. "Salvo has made it unquestionably clear that he will not be handing Cornish over to you." As her face fell, he continued. "In fact, he's taken steps to make that impossible. I'm sorry, Ma'am, I couldn't stop him."

Jean's face turned black and she flew at the commissario. "I've come all this way! Your case is _nothing_, you know that!"

Salvo had to grab her wrists to keep her from slapping him. And hang on like a bulldog, because she put up much more of a struggle than he expected. It took a blink of disbelief before Hathaway and Fazio kicked into action, each one pulling his superior officer away from the other, and eyeing Lewis significantly to trigger his explanation.

"Ma'am, wait! Let me explain!" The urgency in Lewis's voice sounded a bit odd, combined as it was with a suppressed chuckle.

* * *

They had consumed fine Tuscan cuisine for lunch and were sitting back, sipping espressos and savoring the remains of their dessert course. Lewis, of course, was absent, still in hospital but undergoing final observation and tests before his release. Salvo was standing off a bit, talking on the mobile he borrowed from Fazio, and Fazio was working out the logistics for their return to Sicily. Hathaway found himself infinitely more comfortable with Tuscan food than he had been with Sicilian food, and he rather smugly noted Gray seemed to be completely at sea with the unfamiliar dishes. Laura had stayed back with Lewis, and her absence meant Jean was the only woman in the group. This did not bother Jean at all; moreover, she was finding the cuisine as delicious as Hathaway had.

She sighed happily to James. "Well, that was marvelous, wasn't it?"

Hathaway pulled on his nose a couple times, wanting to say something but clearly feeling awkward about it. "Erm, Ma'am . . . this morning . . . erm . . . I think you owe us an explanation."

The smile faded from her face.

"It was _my_ fault, Sir." Gray spoke up before Jean had a chance to say anything. "I mistakenly told her last night we were meeting at the police station this morning. I don't know how I got it so mixed up. I was headed that way when I ran into Fazio, and I just tagged along after him to the meeting. When I realized what I'd done, I went to retrieve the Chief Super since I knew where I'd sent her, but I got so turned around trying to find the station from here, it took forever."

Hathaway cocked his eyebrow, skeptical. But Gray's honest and open expression, combined with Jean's huffy nod, convinced him.

"Where did you _think_ I had gotten to, Sergeant?"

* * *

They were heading up the front walk of the hospital when they saw Laura coming toward them. And immediately they could see her grim demeanor and reddened eyes.

Salvo reached for her, but James was there first, hurrying to her side, putting his arm around her, and asking her quietly what was wrong.

"Fahrid . . . It's Fahrid . . . a blood clot, they said it was immediate—" was all she could get out. Hathaway closed his eyes in a silent prayer and held Laura in his arms.

"He's gone?" James hated euphemisms for death, but couldn't bring himself to say the word.

She buried her face in his chest in response, and he tightened his hug.

"Laura, I'm so sorry."

Salvo touched Fazio's arm to be sure he had understood correctly, and when the latter looked away sadly, Salvo shut his eyes and slumped his shoulders. James realized then that Salvo was sobbing silently, and he gently nudged Laura toward the Sicilian.

Laura and Salvo connected, hugging with their entire bodies. It was a simple act of mutual human compassion; they each needed the contact, the reassurance, the familiarity of someone who had known Fahrid. Both of them were sobbing quietly, their tears wetting each other's shoulder.

In time, they released their hold, and Salvo kissed Laura's cheek. "Grazie." Laura whispered a thank-you in return.

As the group sadly re-entered the hospital, Laura hung back with Fazio and James. In a low voice, she asked, "Fazio? Who is Salvo's François?"

Fazio spoke directly to her, with James providing the information in English. "_François was a little Tunisian boy who was orphaned when his mother was murdered. It was our case, and the commissario took François into his own home to protect him because he was a witness. Salvo and his fiancée fell in love with him and they made plans to get married and adopt him. But then things became too dangerous and Salvo had to hide him by sending him to the home of a friend out in the country. There were paperwork delays and Salvo found it hard to find time to visit, and by the time he did, François had become too attached to the family he was staying with. He grew up there, and Salvo didn't see much of him. I think in his heart he was maybe trying to avoid the responsibilities of family. Then, a few months ago . . ._" He broke off when he realized Salvo was watching him. He shrugged apologetically. "Mi dispiace, dottore. Dovrei fermare?"

Salvo set his jaw hard and turned away, saying nothing but waving his hand to indicate Fazio could continue. And he moved quickly to the front of the group so he wouldn't have to overhear.

Hathaway stared at his back, wondering what came next in the story.

Fazio swallowed and said very quietly, "_Just a few months ago, François was killed by terrorists he had been trying to stop. Salvo was working the case in secret, against orders. I suppose he blames himself._"

Laura had to wipe her eyes when she heard the translation.

And a thought occurred to James: "_So, François had grown up in the meantime—how many years ago was it when Salvo first found him?_"

Fazio thought back. "_Fifteen, something like that_."

Hathaway stared at him. "_Fifteen years? And he and his girlfriend_ still _aren't married?_"

Fazio shrugged. "_You know, I think they like it that way_."

* * *

They found Lewis, successfully checked out but not ready to leave the hospital. "I want to have a look at Jack. The doctor said he's regained consciousness, though he fades in and out." Hathaway shifted as though he intended to go along, but Lewis put his arm out to stop him. "Just me, okay?"

He opened the door to Jack's room and looked in enough to see if Jack was awake. The grunt of disgust he heard gave him his answer, and he came in.

"Well, Robbie, here we are. Have seat, why don't you?"

"I prefer to stand, Jack. You know, when I rang Louise to tell her you were in hospital, she said she wouldn't come. And she said the boys wouldn't care, wouldn't _want_ to see you."

Jack snorted and said nothing.

"What I don't understand is why you did any of this. Simple greed? Did you actually think you were gaining something, when the whole time all you were doing was losing your loved ones?"

"You're assuming things about me when you have no idea what I wanted from life."

Robbie inhaled through his nose. "Well, I suppose that's it, then. What I wonder is whether _you_ knew what you wanted from life. Because I suspect what you've ended up with is not what you were aiming for."

Cornish huffed. "Does anybody get what he was aiming for? Look at you, two score years of mediocre policing, you happy with that?"

Lewis stared at him. "Yeah, y'know, I'm _very_ happy with what I've got." He thought about how depressed he'd been before he let himself relax and _be_ with Laura, and his lips twitched upwards, happy with his life.

Cornish turned his head away. "Get out."

Lewis headed for the door, his face set with a grimace. "I'll see you in court, Jack."

* * *

The group gathered in the hotel bar, sipping beer or wine and relaxing. Presently, the three junior officers were outside so Hathaway could have a cigarette and Gray could suck on his e-cigarette. Laura had her arm threaded through Lewis's as they chatted with Jean, and the commissario, without Hathaway, was pretty unable to participate in any conversation. He sat off in a corner, his back to the wall, a glass of better-than-average Barolo in his hand. He wasn't exactly alone. He was on his mobile with Livia, his fiancée.

Jean focused on Robbie. "The doctor said it looks like we'll be able to transport Jack tomorrow morning. I _think_ that myself, Hathaway, and D.C. Gray can manage on our own. Since this whole ridiculous affair took up at least, what, four days of your holiday? if I allow you to stay another week, can we call it even?"

Robbie and Laura looked at each other, very pleased. He grinned gratefully at Innocent. "Yes, Ma'am, I think that is a very fair arrangement!"

"Robbie, we have to find out if we can keep the villetta for another week." Laura pulled out her mobile and apologized to Jean. "Excuse me . . ."

Jean got up from the table so they could make their arrangements privately. She swirled her wine as she perused the paintings hanging on the wall of the bar. Some of them were lovely; most were landscapes reminiscent of the Tuscan countryside.

She gasped in surprise when someone put an arm around her waist, and a rich, baritone, Italian voice whispered into her ear, "Good evening, Beautiful."

Recognizing the voice, she turned, smiling. "Giorgio, what a pleasure." Though she wasn't certain it was.

He flashed a dazzling smile, pressing himself closer to her. "It was a pity you had to leave in such a hurry this morning. You still owe me a little something." He kissed her so passionately, she was breathless afterward.

"Erm, y'know, I was rethinking that. I don't think it's a good idea after all."

He maintained his smile, but it no longer lit his eyes. "I'm afraid that's not a choice." He tugged her tighter to himself. "If you don't take me up to your room right now, I will make a little telephone call to your husband . . . let's see, that's Arsenius Innocent, and the number of his mobile would be—" He recited the number flawlessly. "I can make up a very convincing story when I need to. Something like: You were terrific last night; I was exhausted!"

Jean's heart was pounding. How could she have been so foolish to get mixed up with this man? She folded her arms protectively across her front, and flicked her eyes away from him. Her gaze settled on Salvo, sitting in the corner and watching her closely, concern knitting his brow.

Salvo saw Jean's eyes widen and her lips part as though she was trying to say something to him. He hadn't liked the look of the fellow chatting her up, and his internal alarms had gone off when he saw the man's physical approach was not being returned. He touched his own chest, then waved his fingers toward her and raised his eyebrows questioningly. She gave the slightest smile and nod, and that was enough. He strode briskly across the room, unbuttoning his jacket at the last minute.

"Jean! Where—?" He broke off as though he had just noticed the man standing so very close to her. The truth was, he couldn't have completed the question in English.

Giorgio turned to size up his rival. His eyes flicked down and then up again, freezing at Salvo's waist, where the grip of his Beretta was plainly protruding from his waistband. Salvo noticed that the hand that had been on the small of Jean's back was swiftly fleeing into a trouser pocket.

Jean beamed. She had no idea if Salvo carried his gun at all times, but she inwardly applauded his sense of theatrics. "Giorgio, I'd like to introduce my husband, Arsenius. Sweetheart, this is Giorgio, the man I told you about this morning."

Giorgio tentatively stuck out his right hand but Salvo put his hands on his hips, taking a very assertive stance.

"Giorgio, eh?" Salvo flexed his fingers a few times, then formed a fist, fitting it into his other palm.

Giorgio turned to Jean, taking backward steps as he did so. "Jean, I'm sorry, I just remembered I need to be somewhere . . ." He practically ran from the room.

After he had fled, Salvo and Jean looked at each other and burst into laughter. She shook his hand enthusiastically, and used about two-thirds of her Italian vocabulary. "Bravo, Salvo! Bravo. Grazie."

He tried to contain his smile but his lips wouldn't cooperate. "Jean, ti ringrazio. Sono divertito." He hugged her with delight.

"Well, you two have certainly become friends!" There was much amusement in Robbie's voice. He had watched the encounter, and had been about to intervene on Jean's behalf when Salvo had taken action. Laura came over, putting her phone away and smiling broadly. She gave Robbie a thumbs-up.

The junior officers returned then, none the wiser about Jean and her sailor. Fazio headed for the bar. Hathaway looked around at the gathered faces, wondering what they were finding so amusing. "So what's the plan?"

Jean took control of the conversation. "Tomorrow, we collect Jack, and Gray, Hathaway, and myself will take him back to England. Robbie and Laura, you'll be able to continue your holiday?"

"Yes, Ma'am, thanks to you. Laura's got us booked for another week. It'll be nice to get back to relaxing!" Robbie squeezed Laura's hand.

Fazio glanced at Salvo. "Commissario?"

"You go Sicilia," Salvo managed. "Livia here molto soon. We go tomorrow, stay Marina di Grosseto."

"Oh, the beach is so lovely there!" Jean sighed.

Hathaway gave her a sharp stare.

"I mean, I've heard that. The concierge was saying." She could feel her face redden.

Laura moved close to Salvo. "I know that I, for one, am grateful I got to know you." She kissed him on the lips, which lasted a bit longer than Robbie liked, and he stepped forward.

"Well, we still have to get through tomorrow, right?"

Laura broke from the Sicilian. "Right." She smiled a little sheepishly at Robbie.

"Un brindisi!" Fazio came over, holding up an open bottle of prosecco and a fistful of champagne flutes. As he began pouring, there came a shout of "Salvo!" from the bar's entry.

They all looked up and saw a lovely blond woman approaching, smiling broadly. Salvo threw open his arms and she ran to him, greeting him with a big hug and a long, passionate kiss.

Robbie nudged Laura in the ribs. "Thirty seconds earlier, and she wouldn't have been greeting him like that, methinks."

Jean smirked. "He has excellent timing."

Fazio cleared his throat. "Dottore?" Salvo ignored him.

The kiss continued several seconds more, and at last they came up for air. Livia poked at the Beretta tucked in Salvo's belt and whispered something in his ear, grinning a bit naughtily. His ears turned pink and he shifted it, tucking it into his belt at his back.

Salvo beamed happily at the group. "Vi presento Livia." And then he named them all for her.

Gray graciously handed her his glass of bubbly, shaking his head slightly. "Not my kind of thing." He waved his glass of beer.

They all looked to Robbie to make the toast. He thought a moment. "Here's to new friends and a successful extradition. In that order."

* * *

It was late when Robbie and Laura got back to their room. He lay next to her in bed, thinking.

She turned her head. "You alright?"

He smiled reassuringly. "I'm sorry work stepped in, but I must say, it has been an interesting few days. Sea urchins—who would think you could eat them?"

She laughed softly and hugged him. "Y'know, for some reason it seemed a lot more fun having work interfere here than it ever does at home. We'd never have seen so many different places and met Salvo and Fazio." She thought a moment. "D'you suppose that's his first name, or his last name?"

Robbie snorted. "I . . . Oh, Salvo told us that first day. It's his last name. But I couldn't tell you what his first name is." He held her tenderly. "I just hope tomorrow goes smoothly. I keep turning it over in my brain. For some reason, I'm not as sleepy as I thought I would be after all that wine."

"Did you want me to take your mind off your troubles?" Her voice was teasing.

He answered her with a long kiss.

* * *

But, of course, things did not go smoothly. Robbie had James with him at the hospital in the early hours, never trusting anything to do with Jack Cornish to go as planned. And indeed he was right to worry. When he arrived, he found Grosseto police and Carabinieri all over the corridor where Jack's room was.

"What th' . . . ?"

Not understanding who the Englishmen were, the officers pushed them back out of the way. While Lewis was trying to pull out his warrant card and explain things, Salvo showed up with Fazio at his side, and he gestured toward the activity.

"Cos'è successo?"

Lewis shrugged animatedly. "I have no idea."

The Sicilian set his mouth in a hard line, and collared a man he assessed was high on the chain of command. They spoke briefly, then Lewis saw Salvo's shoulders sag, and he returned to Lewis's side, defeated.

"Cornish . . . ehhh, _morto_. Capisce?"

"Morto?" Lewis echoed. He understood that. Morto, same root as mortally, mortuary, post mortem. _Dead._ "How?" His face and body registered the question.

Salvo was already asking questions. He ignored Lewis for a few minutes while he pursued explanations in Italian.

At last he pulled Robbie to one side. He inhaled and exhaled before diving into his explanation. And then with his hand he brought Robbie's ear close to his mouth.

"Mafia. Okay? Always mafia. A man go to Cornish at night. Yes?" He checked to see if Lewis was with him so far.

Lewis nodded briskly. "Got it. And?"

"He iniettava . . ." Salvo mimed injecting someone with a syringe. ". . . ehh, morto."

Lewis stared. "Where was the guard? Erm, security? Where?"

The Sicilian's eyes fell. "None. Italy—Cornish non our, right? No tell English . . . ?" He gestured to indicate that Cornish was no longer the concern of the Italians, and the English hadn't realized Cornish would be without protection overnight.

And now he was dead.

Lewis blew out his cheeks. "Got what he deserved after all." His mouth was set in a grim smile.

"_Cornish in Hell_," Fazio supplied.

"Vabbuò." _Agreed_.


	11. Epilogue

Robbie sidled up behind Laura as she gazed out at the Umbrian hillside. "You okay?"

She sighed contentedly. "Never better."

"Then, what is it you're thinking about? I can hear your brain grinding from here."

She turned to face him. "Salvo and Livia—they've been engaged for over twenty years. D'you think they'll ever get married?"

He snorted, but then realized she was serious. "Does it matter? At least they know they have each other. Y'know, some couples go for years, in love, devoted to each other, and they don't even realize it."

Her eyes snapped up to see if he meant who she thought he meant. When she made eye contact, his smile was golden, shining, with nothing held back. She met his embrace, his kiss, and the setting sun framed them as though their love was preserved in liquid gold. They would forever treasure their time in Italy.


End file.
